


Small things

by Scereyaha



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: All of the really bad things are from a time long past, Angst, Angst and Fluff, BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is canonically gender fluid, Cuddly Crowley (Good Omens), Embarrassed Crowley (Good Omens), Emotional self-harm, Hurt/Comfort, I cannot keep the different versions straight so this is something of a convergent universe, I will add tags and warnings as I go, I'm Sorry, M/M, Mutual Pining, Nesting, Read chapter summaries for chapter specific warnings, Repressed Pining, Slow Burn, They will always be soft and perfectly good to each other, Wing Kink, characters recovering together from emotional abuse, definitely more whump than I thought, it will contain discussions of trauma abuse alcohol and drugs, longfic, please read chapter 15 end notes for more explicit warnings, preening, they will discuss said trauma explicitly in chapter 15, they've discussed the history of sexual trauma, various characters appear briefly for plot reasons, very slowly getting together, very slowly unpacking and addressing issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2020-06-23 16:09:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 193,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19704844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scereyaha/pseuds/Scereyaha
Summary: After the end of the world is averted, Crowley expects things to be less complicated, they both do, and when they're not it becomes clear to Aziraphale that he's been hurting his companions feelings in ways he hand't realized. Now Crowley is clearly meaningfully upset with him.... And then the angst fluff spiral continued, and there's plot now, so, enjoy that. I love that for us.This started as just lighthearted -enough- to keep me from taking myself too seriously, but that has liberated my story telling in a way I could not have foreseen. So yeah, it starts with some ideas I was toying with, thinking I might write a drabble and get back to writing my novel, but then I decided to keep going, so it gets progressively heavier and additionally sincere. We're dragging up and addressing everything. We are unpacking some millenniums-old boxes. If something doesn't seem to sit quite right, especially in the first few chapters, do know there is a HIGH likelihood I have dragged it back up to address it.





	1. Small things

**Author's Note:**

> Just fluff and angst so far, hurt/comfort may apply. [It applies] I might start writing another chapter once this is posted. [I have, I have written... so many more by now.]
> 
>   
> Feb 15th, still writing scenes, at some point I'll get them all in the right order and we'll get to the kind of plot that doesn't take place within just getting to cuddle in bed for untold periods of time.
> 
> APR 3rd: I told you I'd update, lol, but I'm moving this to the beginning notes and trying to keep it short. I'm already most of the way through another chapter and -barring disaster- it should be up soon! I was having issues with my house flooding and the heat being out, and a lot of personal stuff, and then this pandemic hit and I got sick... I really am still 100% interested in writing this though and I'll be trying to increase the number of updates again in light of everyone being stuck inside. 
> 
> I have a writing channel in my discord server if anyone wants to stop by: https://discord.gg/BEjh2u  
> I can update with a new link ever so often, or on request. The server was mostly created back when I was regularly releasing chapters of my original novel, but it remains there, in general on my server, if anyone wanted to join. I'm always around if you want to chat and it's easy and free to join discord. It's nice having a chat or two open while we're all stuck inside, that way it feels like we can be stuck inside together when we want. [but also feel free to ignore me but make sure to make a server with your friends for your mental health during this time]
> 
> APR 14th: Chapter 15 will be ready soon. It's a LOT. I don't know how long this tighter update schedule will last, because my life is unpredictable, but we're over half-way to 26 [at least I think I'm still dividing it in 26]! I understand some of you may not want to read until you know it's complete. I can't blame you, I'm often the same and not knowing if a story will ever be finished drives me up the wall, I understand. I'm not judging you for bookmarking with the dates I update either, I don't mind.
> 
> APR 22nd: I swear I am actually close to another update. I really am. It's mostly written and mostly edited but I have found that the issue I am having with one part of a scene breaks down to a pacing issue, it contains all it's supposed to but it still feels like it's glossing right over something instead of letting us sit with it a moment. I don't usually encounter this in writing, as opposed to scenes in movies, but I have somehow accomplished a bad thing here. I just need to fix it.
> 
> June 7th: I did not mean to leave this sitting like this for so long, I am writing another update but I was also very distracted by a lot of things happening. I wanted to update more while everyone is stuck at home, not less. I am, in fact, writing the next chapter.
> 
> June 18th: I am still very much working on this. I did not expect to take so long. Due to the recent flooding and all the rain, the cracks in the foundation and the fact that all my floors are cool tile, now that the weather is hot and humid I'm having to do a lot of extra cleaning with bleach, borax and mold deterring enzyme to make sure I don't end up with a mold problem. That has been added to a new slew of health issues and having already been in the middle of fully re-organizing everything I own before the flooding and me catching -what was probably Covid- was a thing... To add to that I'm just now catching up on the laundry backlog from the last place I lived and I've developed worsening symptoms with my connective tissue and heart since whatever virus I caught. I'm doing better and keeping myself as busy as I have the energy for, but I really need to prioritize keeping this place clean and dry right now. So I -am- writing the next chapter, and I hate leaving it like this for any length of time, but IDK whether I can assure you it'll be soon or if it will end up taking longer than I intended.

"Crowley, If that's you I..."

He was not sure what he was going to say, that he was sorry, certainly, but maybe also that his friend needed to come off this nonsense or tell him what was actually bothering him. He did not quite get that far.

It was silly anyway. Crowley was sulking, probably taking a long nap, and clearly did not want to talk to him at the moment. He would have to find some way to make it up to him. The last thing he would do would be to disguise himself as some other snake just to- what he was not sure either, because he was suddenly a couple meters away without thinking about it.

"Away with you. No, you can't have him." he scolded to the sound of disgruntled honking and hissing that did not come entirely from the snake.

He was also relatively certain he would not be so committed to the act, that he would let himself be pecked at by water fowl without righting himself and walking away, not having enough shame to be properly embarrassed even when he was embarrassed. A little recoil and a distressed hiss was all it took to have him decide that the snake really was just small and defenceless and that it would be unbearably cruel to watch it be hurt.

He walked back to the bench glancing back at the goose as if offended at the idea that such an animal even would try to harm a snake. It seemed slightly backwards in some way. Though birds did eat fish, and the like, and this snake was very small, and -not that defending nests was really necessary this late in the season- it could have been instinctive. He probably only got away with it because the ducks and geese here were so used to him feeding them.

Of course, if he really knew anything about snakes, or this variety in particular, he would have known it was full grown, but he assumed it was just a hatchling. He would have also known that the tiny squeeze against his hand was an automatic fear response. In fact, if you were to drop a snake in a wind tube, to mimic a very long fall, it would do something very much the same, trying to reassure itself that it could hold something solid. A snake in free fall would tie itself in knots trying to make itself feel secure, like it had something to hold onto, whether or not it did and whether or not it knew it would possibly die when it finally hit the bottom. Aziraphale did not know this of course, and so took the first little squeeze as a kind of thanks.

“Oh don't mention it.” he practically cooed at the little animal.

He sat back down, checked it over carefully for injury, and gestured to let the little thing sit beside him on the bench. It did not move. It was clinging to his hand, again, likely an involuntary response, another feeble squeeze. Either way it did not seem to want to let go, so he let it stay and shielded it from the sun and the sight of the other geese with his hand. Well, it certainly had lovely red belly scales like Crowley, but he highly doubted that Crowley would tolerate being picked up this way, would let himself be so vulnerable, or would be showing such clear signs of fear and distress. He looked around.

“Dear child, where is your mother?”

The snake that was not -in fact- a hatchling did not do anything in response. It just clung to his hand, so he assumed it was safely not Crowley and thus safe to speak to. He felt like he needed someone to speak to.

“Well, it just happens I like being in the company of snakes.” he said, with a bit of a dry tone, something of a reluctant jab at his friend who was currently refusing to be present, though he did actually mean it.

“Not that he'd appreciate the comparison.” he sighed.

“I don't know why though.” he went on, stroking the top of its head gently, “I think you're quite charming.”

“And such a lovely red belly.”

The snake lifted its head just enough to bob ever so slightly when it was stroked. Ever so gentle brushes meeting a very small snake. It was smaller than a pen, so small, in fact, he was surprised he had seen it at all to begin with. It gave him a long steady look, but of course it did, snakes did not blink and always moved very intentionally anyway. At least it had stopped periodically squeezing his hand as if still seeking to reassure itself. He had guessed by this point it was more of a stress reaction. He would have to get it to let go eventually, and he was afraid that trying to force it would definitely hurt it. He could only imagine what Crowley would think if he finally came around to discover Aziraphale had adopted the first snake he found, and with a little red belly no less. He would have to learn to care for it properly, and it just seemed such a nerve-wrackingly fragile little thing. That was, if Crowley came around within the lifespan of such a creature.

“He seems to be set on taking everything I say in the worst possible way.” he lamented quietly to his new companion, speaking softly and trying to soothe it.

“I never mean it to be an affront. It's just he...”

Well he -was- a demon, and when he pointed it out, he was not doing it to be cruel, but to state the facts. And he -was- a snake, in a sense at least. Even before the fall he had been serpentine in form, as much as any of them had visual qualities or forms when not assigned a body. If some angels resembled great wheels with thousands of eyes, then -he imagined- Crowley would have resembled a great dragon; not that he had met him personally before he had been cursed to “crawl on his stomach” and re-named “Crawley”, but everyone seemed to have some idea of how it happened, though maybe those were just rumours.

A demon he was though, and not only were they -supposed- to be at odds by nature, a construct that they had largely rejected, but in some direct way they were; physically, so to speak. Aziraphale himself could be harmed by hellfire and Crowley could easily be killed by holy water. There were things that could happen to them that were far worse then being inconveniently discorporated, and even if that was all, it was impossible they would be given new bodies again and would be trapped in opposite places, if not just wiped from existence.

“He seems to forget how dangerous it can be. He makes enemies of all the wrong sorts, on both sides, we both have, and he does things like stroll into churches and ask to be handed vials of holy water.” Now he was the one hissing about things under his breath, pleading for understanding with a snake.

That was all besides the fear he was struggling to admit to himself, that he always had.

The snake seemed to finally get over the surprise of being petted gently and settled its head down against the back of his finger with a little sigh. So he shifted to his side to make sure he was not pressing it too hard. Maybe he was soothing himself now. He looked at the little ring of speckles near the snake's neck. It was small and cooler than the air should seem to allow for, and very smooth, almost like glass. He certainly felt like he was holding something as fragile as glass.

“And if he thinks holy water is the only thing divine that can harm a demon...”

There was such a thing as divine grace, and all sorts of things on his former side, as much as twisted parallels on the other, and they did not understand how those really worked or interacted in more subtle ways, just how some could be used to harm the other side. They were originally of the same stock, and could -as such- perform similar miracles, and illusions, transformations and so on, but -they- were not really supposed to be interacting in ways that could be described as subtle, or amicable or anything of the sort, and if things that were pure and good and healing could -some of them- hurt his friend the way they did, then he shuddered to think what all that entailed. He did not know, neither of them could know. He did not know in what ways they were still the same and in what ways they were disastrously different, even now, especially now. He did not know how each of them were changing or could change, and even that was short of any kind of emotional considerations. He had always been comfortable with unknowns before.

Perhaps it was that he had been surrounded by so much certainty in so many things that leaving something up to an understanding and judgment beyond his had never bothered him before. Maybe it was that it did not feel like anything he really cherished was a stake until now.

“Well, anyway, its not like him to be this sensitive... is it?”

He may have asked this in an attempt to reassure himself that he was not the root of this, but it came out as more of an actual question than he intended. Maybe Crowley had always been more affected by it than he had caught onto. Aziraphale had though it had practically become a running joke between them, but then all of a sudden -if he could judge by his reaction at all- it had become terribly offensive.

~*~

They had been having breakfast. Well -he- had been having breakfast, Crowley had been sprawled out on a chair across from him in some kind of steadily increasing mood that seemed to have been building for months.

Aziraphale had finally conceded to having him stay with him, Even if 'with him' meant being invited to find an apartment nearer his shop. Since the end of the world had already happened and they were being left alone, he had thought that, if they could be considered to be acting in open defiance of both their sides, to no longer belong to said sides, they had no real need for their Arrangement anymore, and that they might end up spending a lot less time together. Crowley, however, and however much the world was not still ending, still seemed pointedly, nonchalantly keen on the idea of maybe going off together somewhere, though now somewhere on earth, where they both loved being, and would fight to stay; maybe somewhere that was warm this time of year.

Aziraphale had shown too much hesitance to leave the shop behind, and Crowley immediately understood, every time he asked. One time, Aziraphale asked him why he kept bringing it up, why it mattered that they be closer together, since they saw each other all the time anyway. Crowley had stopped asking. Both their excuse for being around each other, and the need for that excuse wore off in one breath and Aziraphale was left having to admit somewhat openly that he did not at all mind Crowley being around, that he might actually prefer it. When he suggested finding a place closer to the shop, he seemed to immediately take him up on it.

The whole truth was he had actually entertained the idea of him moving in entirely -a fair turn, and something that actually sounded nice- but he knew Crowley like having a lot more rooms than he had, for things that were not books, and when he brought up the idea of bringing all of his plants to the shop he started waving it off saying how if their plants met it would ruin everything. He knew how Crowley seemed to think refrigerators were supposed to work, and he was -frankly- afraid to ask about the plants.

Of course that was a fair distance to still be considered living companions, but it was close enough that a haphazard saunter could easily bring him to the shop, and did, daily. When it started to seem like turning parts of his shop into something more resembling a home would make more practical sense, he decided it would actually be perfectly repelling to customers and did exactly that. There was now a little cafe area thrown together in one corner, which could -in theory- be attractive, but always looked like someone had just dined there and not quite -entirely- left yet, or generally somehow gave off the impression of being in use even when no one was using it. There was a seating area in one of the back rooms, though books still lined the walls, but there was a sign hanging in front of the door proclaiming it off limits to customers. He could just see the reviews now.

So, in theory, they did not actually live together, but Crowley did sleep, and had taken easily to falling asleep as they conversed, and as those conversations dragged on into late hours, the natural result was him waking on a sofa sometime in the morning and sauntering out to where Aziraphale now ate breakfast. The only thing that did not feel natural about it was just how much -or how easily- Crowley had taken to sleeping a large portion of the time, when he should not even need sleep. He found it a little fascinating, seeing someone with angelic heritage sleeping, but also a little concerning. And then there was his mood.

He said mood because, well, normally little gestures of care were met with a placated kind of silence. It was as though whenever he did something to try to be friendly Crowley would be caught up enough -trying to process it- that he would not really have a reaction other than a kind of calm acceptance, sometimes a very long look. Usually. Lately, on the other hand, he seemed to be going out of his way to dramatically turn everything into an offensive gesture, and it was getting to be incrementally more absurd seeming leaps.

~*~

“Even since the very beginning he's been like that.” he told the little snake, “Even in the very first rain, when I offered him a wing to shelter under... ” Aziraphale trailed off.

Crowley certainly did not remember it like that, at least not always, unless 'offered' meant twitched it towards him awkwardly like he wanted to offer, and then clearly tell himself he had better not -for fear of judgment- and look guilty and a little sad about it. Still, the fact that he had even wanted to was what they both seemed to chose to focus the memory on, each rewriting it little by little in their own minds until it seemed odd that Aziraphale also remembered Crowley's hair being soaked through by the time they parted. The fact that the angel had spoken with him and even wanted to shelter him from the unknown of the rain made Crowley's memory of it seem warm enough to seem inconsistent with the cold wetness of the whole thing. Usually anyway. And if you asked him -which Aziraphale never had- he thought a perfectly reasonable reaction to such a thing was a good long stare.

Of course, he could have always opened his own wings to shield himself, but if Aziraphale did not think it was fully worth bothering with, then what was a little rain.

~*~

“You don't have to cover me with a blanket.” he remembered him saying as Aziraphale sat down to eat his eggs.

“Well, I wouldn't want you to get cold.” he said, taking a bite of toast.

In all honestly it just seemed kind of awkward, to notice he had fallen asleep and just get up and leave to go about his business. He did not sleep of course, he spent his time keeping financial records, cataloguing books and curating new arrivals, reading and so on. He had made one exception to that recently, out of curiosity and after the fatigue of all of that business with the world ending, and it had been a terrible idea. Awful dreams, perhaps suggesting he was just too anxious of a person these days to be suited to sleeping. It seemed rude not to do anything in acknowledgement -when he extracted himself and Crowley was asleep- so he thought putting a blanket over him was an appropriately friendly gesture, if perhaps a little human of him.

“Demons don't get cold.” He practically hissed in objection, whether or not that was true, “You... You just think I'm cold blooded.” he intoned it like the insult it was often intended as, completely regardless of whether it could be considered true at any given time.

Aziraphale, naturally, tried to brush off the accusation.

“You do. You're worried I'll hibernate or something if I get too cold.”

This was an unfair accusation and he probably should have known it. Aziraphale would have to have made a point to know a little more about the biology or design of reptiles to have drawn this conclusion, and for angels they had both always been interestingly uninterested in the details of God's creation.

“Well you -have- been sleeping a lot.” he shot back, hoping his concern made it across and glad to finally have some kind of opening to address it.

“Oh yeah, and it is starting to get chilly I suppose.” Crowley spat this back with enough venom that Aziraphale actually picked up on the sarcasm.

“You know that's not what I mean.” he sighed, trying to get back to a pleasant breakfast.

At least it probably was not. He really was worried though.

“Do I now?” Crowley cocked his chin up.

Under normal circumstances this kind of frankness would have been paired with very intense eyes giving him a very steady look over the top of his sunglasses. This had not been the case for a week.

“I- I am -really- worried about you though.” he said, not making eye contact and being careful to chose words like 'worried' and not 'concerned'.

Crowley made a derisive sound, and Aziraphale put both his hands on the table and tilted his head in an expression that said 'now really'.

“Maybe you just didn't accurately predict what it would be like living with a -demon-.” he said, putting a lot of stress and emphasis on the last word.

“That's- That's hardly fair, I'd like to think that, by now, I know you rather well... Though I wish I knew what has -obviously- crawled under your skin.”

“Oh yes, what creepy crawly -thing- ...Maybe it's a snake.” he hissed a very snake-like tongue for emphasis.

Aziraphale instantly regretted his word choice and felt lost.

“Or maybe something with wings?” he asked gently and Crowley sat back in his chair and looked off to the side, suddenly seeming ready to drop it again, though his bouncing foot shook the whole table in a threatening vibration.

“You've been acting so strange lately...” he said very carefully and gently, wanting to re-approach the subject of what was bothering him so much and hopefully not say anything else stupid.

“-I've- been acting -strange- have I?”

There was such a warning in those words, and still not even a peek out from behind his glasses, that he did not want to press. He just wanted him to be happy and at peace again, as much as peace could suit a demon. He had never known him to be so irritable or confrontational, or miserable, not towards him anyway. He wanted to shyly tuck back into his meal in hopes that was not the one wrong thing to do again, but he had lost his appetite, in a sense.

Maybe they were starting to become too human, maybe all this sleeping and eating they did was a natural result of living on earth so long, and now defying heaven and hell. Maybe if Crowley ate more, he might sleep less.

“...Do, do -you- like eggs?” he asked, picking the last of his boiled eggs up and holding it tentatively out to him.  
Something in being offered food off of Aziraphale's plate seemed to bring back that reaction, of trying to even process a kind gesture enough to accept it. The way he reacted to these things had not really changed in thousands of years, despite that he was kind to him all the time -despite that they were kind to each other all the time- until this past week or so, which was what had him so concerned. Crowley tentatively reached out for the egg and he offered it properly.

“I'll have you know it's not because I'm a snake.” he said defiantly, but much calmer.

He had been watching him eat breakfast for a week and had not really bothered having any.

“Well, I eat and you sleep and maybe that's...”

Aziraphale was going to confess to possibly making a bigger deal of things than called for and maybe try to take some responsibility for whatever had come between them, even if he did not know quite what it was. Just then though, Crowley's finger brushed his, and felt hot and he jumped. And that was exactly the wrong thing.

“Yeah and you have yourself convinced that I'm the one acting strange.” Crowley snapped right back to upset and stopped entertaining the egg.

Now that was fair enough. Ever since he had tried sleeping and had that nightmare, he supposed he had been a little jumpy. Any time Crowley got too close or ended up touching him -or almost so- in some incidental way.

“If it's about that incident, then...” Crowley tried to say something and he did not mean to interrupt him, but he had to correct whatever assumption he was making.

The incident he was referring to was a short while ago. He had gotten a bit of soot on one of his wings and had not noticed until he very abruptly was made aware by Crowley -looking very concerned- and trying to clean it away. He was not used to his wings being touched or his friend so casually and intently reaching over boundaries like that. It was not that it was unpleasant at all, and -given another few thousand years to warm up to it- he probably would have enjoyed it. As it was, it was abrupt, and his mind insisted that there was something less than appropriate about it. It had been his turn to stare for a while, processing and flustered, before gently extracting himself from the concerned preening, and asking -trying not to sound too offended- what it was all about.

Crowley brushed it off and absolutely refused to discuss it further, telling him it was nothing, but he suspected he knew.

“Oh I'd hardly still be annoyed about something silly like that...”

Crowley interrupted him ineffectively to repeat the word “silly” in offence.

“... heaven's no, I -I had a... Well a nightmare, actually.” he had said, suddenly looking distressed, and maybe embarrassed.

Maybe it had been the exact worst possible thing to do, to let Crowley angrily drag it out of him what that nightmare had been about.

~*~

“You see, I'd tried to clean something off -his- wing, but he...” He couldn't really say it, it was bad enough that Crowley had forced him to.

It was like touching him catalyzed some reaction that spread like acid, like holy water, like fire.

It was bad enough Crowley's reaction was still clanging loudly around in his brain.

~*~

“So what? You're suddenly afraid that if something so pure touches some-thing- like me that I'll burst into flames?”

The fact that he grabbed a potted plant on his way out told him that he did not want to be followed.

~*~

Of course it was not really a rational fear to have and they both knew it. Especially now. They had been in all kinds of casual contact with each other over millennia, and it had never caused either of them harm; that he knew of at least. Not that Crowley would necessarily -tell- him if being touched by him hurt.

“So you see, I've done something terrible.” he confided to the little snake, who only watched him steadily.

“Letting him believe that. Not trying to stop him leaving, not... ”

He knew he was miserable at finding words for things and even being fully honest with himself about things like feelings. They both were.

“I don't... It's not what -I- think of him that's in command of these things. The fact is that we've been punished to be considered opposites...” He trailed off, realizing what he was finally putting into words.

“That's what I've come to suspect anyway -not that I presume to know, for the record- that God was punishing both of us, both side, for the war, for the fall. We all wanted to hurt each other, and now we can... Now we're opposite and dangerous to each other and no one knows what's safe and what isn't, not really, and we've already been let away with so much. And I know it felt so much like we were past all that... But if holy water can still burn a demon away...”

There were certainly other things that held a power comparable, things that were pure and healing and meant to be aligned with the side called Good. Even he, by his nature, contained something of that. He could swim in holy water because it was akin to him just as Crowley could walk through hellfire. It was not at all about what he personally held to be true of his friend, it was like the inescapable chemistry of the cosmos, and a -possibly outdated- judgment that was over and done with long ago; but for the consequences.

“...What about divine love?” he began to let himself voice his real fears out loud for the first time, in hushed and distressed whispers, “I'm a being of love, how could I not love my friend? And what if by his very nature that love eats away at him until there's nothing left?”

“After everything... Of course it isn't up to me, whether we should be allowed...”

“And if he knew, he'd try to tempt me with the idea that it was probably safe.” he smiled fondly, “That love could never be bad, that I'm not capable of doing anything wrong, Just to put my mind at ease, just so... But he doesn't know. God -only- knows and if we make guesses and we're -wrong- I... I couldn't let...”

He could not let Crowley pay the price for his comfort, or let anything happen to him, and if it was somehow his fault, he could not bear it.

His hands trembled and he felt the little snake squeeze him gently, maybe trying to steady its perch, reminding him to be very careful, as if he was not still holding the little creature like it was precious and fragile.

“And all this time, I think, I think it really -has- been eating at him, at least that I bring it up, that we're supposed to be on opposite sides... ”

It was the only explanation that seemed reasonable for the theme of his irritations and reactions.

“I'm not sure why he seems to take it all so... judgmentally. I don't know what I've done to let him think that I really -agree- with all those terrible things about him...”

He trailed off again, first folding into himself slightly and then straightening.

“If I thought it was up to my judgment -though I know it's not- and if it was in me to question the ineffable plan -which it's not- I'd say that he's been treated absolutely unfairly.” He said with conviction, despite his professed lack of conviction.

“But then, if it were any different, then I suppose Crowley wouldn't be Crowley, and I- Well... The world would have ended, for one.”

There was so much more to it than that. If Crowley was not Crowley then everything he knew and loved in the world would all be gone.

“And he's just seemed so tired lately, and it's as though everything I say to him only makes it worse, and he's hurt, actually hurt this time, and I don't know how to fix it. I don't know if I can.”

“With the way he's been acting, I'm beginning to suspect that there isn't anything I could say that wouldn't just make him think that I think less of him, or make him feel worse about himself.”

“What if by -my- very nature, all -I- can do is hurt him? No matter what I think or feel? What if that's the real punishment?”

He just wished he knew.

“Why does it all have have to be so...”

He heard his favourite word crash through his mind but he looked miserable.

“I really must be terrible... Your eyes remind me so much of his.”

~*~

Of course if he knew anything about snakes at all he would have also known that it was completely unrealistic to find such a snake in the ecological zone he was in, that -if it was there at all- it would be hibernating by now, and also that this particular kind of snake, a North American red belly to be specific, had round, large pupils and warm dark brown eyes, and not sharp yellow ones. Had he known this he would not have said anything at all on the subject, out of politeness, or anything of his internal workings out of a vague fear that putting things into words and admitting them to someone would make them too real and bring about consequences he did not want to face.

Crowley, meanwhile, had never meant to trick him. He was not even quite sure why he was there or how he had gotten into this. It seemed like such a natural progression. He had intended to be small enough not to notice, at least enough to see if Aziraphale would be there and then decide what he wanted to do.

Or it might have been that it was all a lot more involved than Aziraphale thought, his punishment. When he and the others had been cursed, it was for hubris and pride, for both questioning the plan, and Gods priorities, but also jealousy of man and things like disdain for God's creations. So their punishment was to become like those creatures they treated as so beneath them, in many ways, in substantial ways. It was not just a change of superficial costume, it was a shift in what form was -and felt- the most natural to them. They were meant to feel what it might be like to be weak and mortal and small and temporary, even if much of that was ultimately some illusion.

Being human shaped took more effort than it did to be an Angel assigned a human body, though the body itself tended human, or humanoid, and was to some fair degree his natural form as much as any, his new nature always wanted to shift it toward snake. Thus serpentine forms were the most natural feeling, and the further he shifted away from that the more effort and focus it took. He could -for example- pretend to have human eyes, but he would have to want to, and he was bad at schooling his consciousness into wanting to hide his nature. He thought maybe he just did not like the dishonesty of it, deep down, to lie about what he was, thought, after all this time, he had come to think maybe it was something more selfish, like some desire to be known for who he really was, that made it so difficult.

Any time he tried to change his eyes and he was met with kindness or affection or anything other than the usual fear and mistrust, it only hurt, it stung and burned, and it all felt like lies, and that made it impossible for him to maintain. He was, in short, somewhat bound to the forms he identified with most, and was not really in conscious control of that. So when he was stressed and in poor control of his emotions and reactions, it became increasingly easy to be a snake, and not just look like one, but to inhabit what it meant to be a snake, biochemistry, natural responses and all. Regardless of whether the context made him feel more secure or more vulnerable that way, and maybe he also just felt very small at the moment, or like he should be very small.

Aziraphale might have been surprised to see that a goose might attack a small snake like that. Crowley was not. Crowley was glad his natural serpentine form was actually rather large, and liked to avoid disguising himself as small snakes, specifically because a surprising number of creatures you might think of as gentle would easily try to kill -and then probably eat- any snake they thought they could safely overpower. He knew, not because of any interest in God's designs, but from experience.

In any event, he -told- himself his plan was to see if he was there and then decide what he wanted to do, and then a bunch of things just kind of happened.

The first mistake had been thinking -or not thinking at all- that the small size was a good idea around geese, or even the usual ducks. He suspected it was all downhill from there, really. From the moment they attacked him, he could either reveal himself and leave, or let himself be pecked to death, and before he could decide that he did not care if Aziraphale saw him, just one quick hissed stream of -cursing his lack of foresight- and panic later, he had already been spotted and picked up, whisked off to safety.

And then his friend was holding him and patting his head so very gently and telling him how charming he was, and oozing affection, and working his way around to confessing to all kinds of things, things he would probably never admit to Crowley for another couple thousand years at least. And he reacted the only -and only rational- way he knew how, stared at him and listened.

He knew he was being sensitive and he hated it. It was not like him, or -at least- being obvious about it was not like him. It -had- been getting under his skin lately that Aziraphale seemed to be going to extra lengths to remind him of how differently natured they were, when he thought that had all been a front out of necessity, and that he seemed to develop some new paranoid aversion to any contact with him. It was as thought he had forgotten every affectionate gesture that passed between them that had not harmed him or turned the sky to blood. He had thought they were past the whole angel and demon thing, the whole act -he had thought it was an act- about needing to be careful about a creature of hell.

He was seeing it all in a very different context now. Not once did his friend mention anything about judgment for himself or fear that he might taint himself or distance himself from heaven, not once was anything unkind or even unloving said about Crowley's nature. Not once -other than perhaps calling him sensitive- did he blame Crowley for anything. He had never before heard him voice doubt about the ineffable plan, or judgments -of his own- for God or either side, but now they seemed to spill out.

His friend was having a crisis of faith.

That was the last thing Crowley wanted.

Aziraphale could not have a crisis of faith, he was certain of everything and usually cherished what little uncertainty he was allowed. Now he was questioning everything and especially his own nature, a light squeeze at his hand seemed to make it worse, and if Crowley let this continue he was afraid his own nightmares would come true. The sky was darkening, deep rolling grey clouds were filling up the sky as the red of the sunset slipped away.

But then, he was being held gently, quite carefully, close to his friend's chest, and the gentle stroking on his side only stopped so he could be shielded from the budding evening rain. It was just too late now, he thought, to correct the situation. The only polite thing he could do was slink away and address this all somehow, and quickly.

The little snake had flinched slightly, scrunching up, as the rain started, as if expecting to feel heavy, cold drops on his head next, but when Aziraphale held his hand up to protect him from the rain, it looked up, raising its head to stare at him evenly again. But he was staring helplessly past the little being into the depths of time.

He was remembering eyes like that and rain drenched hair, still content to stand next to him.

“I should have never let my fear of judgment keep me from doing what I felt was right. I didn't with the sword... And he's forgiven me over and over for it since, had from the beginning...” And then he had an even more terrible thought, “Or maybe he's just taken it into himself that it's not something that -needs- to be forgiven. How could I let him think that?”

Before he could get too caught up deciding just how horrible he was, a desperate little squeeze around his fingers brought him back to the present.

“I'm sorry...” he began, so softly and a little pained, thinking that maybe in his distraction he had been anything less than gentle with the little snake, and checking it over again for injury or distress.

Now, you could get a lot past Aziraphale about the minute details of animals. He could not -for example- tell you what all the species were or whether snakes could cry. He could say, with relative certainty -on the other hand- that snakes did not generally get teary eyed at being shielded from the rain by anyone, regardless of whether that person was an angel, and would likely not respond with such an outpouring of love; now that he could sense it over the distractions. And he -at least- had the good sense to know how to be properly embarrassed when things were properly embarrassing.

“Oh dear.” he mouthed to himself before he could say or think anything else.

He did not know what else to do, so he opened his wings to shield the bench beside him, and miracled away the water wordlessly. He did not want it to seem too much like a demand, just an offer.

Crowley supposed he had to face this sooner or later, and that there was only so much being held like he was delicate that he could reasonably allow for now, especially since it had suddenly become all respectful distance and the stroking had stopped. He was ready for this to send Aziraphale flying off in the other direction, caught off guard, for him to get defensive and maybe accuse him of tricking him on purpose. His friend always took a very long time to come around to things. He was preparing himself for the initial reaction as he morphed into his place beside him, still warm and dry. The sound of the rain intensified and stretched on.

“You weren't -really- going to let the goose...?” Aziraphale asked instead, after a long silence and very quietly.

“What? Noo. I was about to...” he made a gesture like fangs or claws in the air, “You know, and just...” he indicated leaving in a very strict way with his hands.

It somehow suggested the mental imagine of springing up out of the grass as if appearing from nowhere already mid-stride in the closest thing to a determined march all his sauntering could allow for, and not looking back.

“But...” instead of having to describe what came next he switched tracks, “What -do- you think of me?”

Aziraphale thought he had probably said enough about what he thought that evening, and instead looked like he was going to start apologizing again. He only stopped when Crowley fixed him with another long stare. His eyes were their proper size again and he had finally left off the barrier of his sunglasses. Recently his eyes had always been narrowed to fine slits, stress, fatigue, adrenaline, general distress, even anger, hurt, as he feared, and it was one of those things he had been so worried by, that they seemed progressively more closed off.

Now it was like he could see into them again. He was not sure he could quite read the expression he was wearing.

“You know, you've been apologizing to me for a solid hour.”

“Yes, and you...” he stopped because he did not know where to go with that.

He of course had just let him. Aziraphale could hardly blame him for not knowing how to reasonably extract himself from the situation. It all happened kind of quickly, and Crowley never had a real plan and never knew how to really react to anything. And if his friend took some comfort from being held, he could hardly blame him for that either.

“You -really- didn't know?” Crowley asked, with another, long and hard to read stare.

Aziraphale shook his head. He could not, after all, very well go around assuming any snake he encountered was his friend. He also could not always have the sense of things he probably should when he was so caught up in his own feelings. He could only imagine how horribly awkward that had been.

“If you think I did this on purpose...”

“Oh no, this is all my fault.” Aziraphale countered, very automatically.

Crowley's body language seemed to be arguing with itself between sprawling out on the bench and adopting a very closed posture. Finally he seemed to break out of this restlessness, back to very intentional motions, as if there was something urgent.

Aziraphale was, thus, distracted from trying to elaborate, because Crowley was suddenly overly occupied with one of his wings again, gently guiding it towards him and turning the tip to face down and then back out again, looking it over. This time Aziraphale was careful not to pull or flinch away, easier when he was just turning it and not rummaging through the feathers and trying to stroke them clean, the memory of which, in hindsight, left pleasant chills. He must have still been giving him an expression that begged an answer though.

“You're not the only one who gets bad dreams.” Crowley confessed, or chided him.

It was actually many dreams, if you were intent on calling them that, and of course Aziraphale would guess in short order, or already had.

“Crowley, dear... You're really worried I might fall?”

There was that defensiveness, much lessened, but this time the doubt laced all through it was distressing to hear.

“Because of you?” he asked in a kind of pained disbelief.

Not long ago he would have voiced such concern himself, that consorting with demons and letting himself be convinced into things could bring him to that end, but that was before he knew how deeply that was actually affecting his friend. Now, he was ready to start defending that any time Crowley had tempted him it was because he had practically asked him to, or out of some kindness, or whatever else he needed to hear.

“...Because you thought you deserved it... Because of me.”

In all fairness, with the way he had been talking over the past half hour or so, it was probably quite reasonable of him to be concerned. He was starting to form his own suspicions about how much of their experiences broke down to what they believed they deserved.

“Well, I do feel like I haven't been a very good friend.”

Even admitting that they were friends out loud like that was relatively new. It had not even been a single year yet.

“You'd think, by now, I'd be able to tell what's bothering you. Maybe I shouldn't have to ask.”

It would certainly be easier for Crowley if he would figure it out on his own, or if he would catch onto his sarcasm or shifts in moods without it being explained, but it was not personal, they were both terrible at this kind of thing, and it certainly was not because he did not care. All the confessions of how much he really did care were still rolling lazily around in his head.

“You -did- ask, you tried.”

He could not really expect him to know if he never said anything direct about it.

Now Crowley perpetually had that tone and air about him, like he did every time he asked to go far away together, that softening and vulnerability that became so painfully obvious.

“If you don't mind? In your words?” Aziraphale asked quietly after a minute.

“Oh you know, it's all these... Small things, and when there's enough of them, they eventually become one big -thing-.” he gestured expressively.

He made it sound like a thousand and one little slights had worn on him, and maybe that was how it had happened and why Aziraphale felt awful about it.

“You don't... You don't usually take it seriously, those things... Not anymore?

Aziraphale just really needed to hear he had not been being cruel all this time. Crowley wanted more than anything to reassure him of that. All Crowley ever did was try to keep him from having to feel like he had to be hard or frightening, or detached or authoritative, or any of those things that actually made a biblical Angel sound terrifying. He wanted to let him be kind and soft, gentle, and to get to think of himself that way, and maybe that was why he had such a hard time saying something when he hurt his feelings. He would have to tell him that he had done something mean, and he would have to admit to having feelings. He did not want to do that.

“Nah... Not usually, or often.”

“But sometimes? Lately?”

Crowley looked off, away from him and gripped the edge of the bench. He was trying to figure it out. It was not that being sensitive or dramatic was not in his nature, of course he was those things, he accepted that as easily and without judgment as his friend did, it was more that those things did not usually create rifts between them or leave either of them feeling terrible or small, at least not for very long before they came around.

“What do you think?” he sighed in a slightly agitated way, making it sound just a bit like hissing.

“I think...” Aziraphale started, at risk of saying too much about what he was thinking again, “That you should be allowed to be sensitive sometimes... That it's reasonable.” he paused to watch how he gripped the edge of the bench, much like he occasionally gripped the steering wheel, or a crowbar, or spray bottle, or book, like he could steel himself to face anything if he just felt like he had something solid to hold onto.

“...And that maybe it's not you being sensitive after all... And that maybe I could be kinder.” he tested.

In all honesty, Aziraphale was a little tired of not letting himself reach out when he felt he should, for fear of what it meant to anyone outside of them, and if something was hurting his friend, it was his hesitance. So he gently teased his pinky under Crowley's, it being the only finger that was not curled tightly over the edge of the bench. This earned him a very long stare, but in a few minutes Crowley had relaxed and let go of the bench, now returning the gesture and curling his pinky around his to hold it there. He felt a familiar squeeze at his finger.

“Finally get over this irrational fear you have?” he asked, but his voice was much more subdued.

“Well, all evening, if I could... hold you and... Then, I don't see the harm.” he seemed flustered, but firm at the least.

Another very long stare, and a very long silence.

He was glossing right over all the parts with the open affection and the kind words and being told he was loved, if indirectly. And if that had not caused some catastrophic reaction, then maybe it should put both of them at ease. It raised other questions though.

“Crowley dear? When you were...”

“Hm?”

“Well the reason I assumed it couldn't be you was that you seemed genuinely afraid.”

He did not want to put it in a way that might embarrass him.

“The snake, really seemed like it was in genuine distress.”

“Why, didn't you just let go?”

He had, after all, given him an opening to let go and slither off. When he was met with too long of a silence he tried to prod at him.

“Is it that you like...”

“I couldn't.” Crowley interrupted him quickly, then, at the look he was suddenly getting, “I couldn't just let go.” he admitted.

“What do you mean?” he asked, despite that he had come to suspect that much, thought he did not know why.

This was obviously something that was agitating him, but eventually the toe bouncing stopped and his grip tightened just slightly.

“Well I don't know about you, but when I change forms, it isn't just all...” he waved his other hand around, “It's not all just shapes... I -become- the thing I'm becoming, especially...”

Especially when he was in the form he was cursed to.

“I mean I'm still -me- I'm just also...”

“You don't mean it makes you...?” he said with concern.

“Noo. Not really. I don't think I ever stop being... what I am... It's just, well it's part of the punishment, right? To know what it feels like to be all...” he waved his hand around again.

“Vulnerable?” Aziraphale tested quietly.

Crowley's hand dropped as if it, unfortunately, did not have to search for the word anymore. He seemed agitated again, until Aziraphale gave his pinky a little squeeze.

“I can't imagine being changed like that. Against my will, even as a punishment for...” he said after a while, again running into the fact he did not even really know what it was Crowley was being punished for.

Certainly it was not for causing the fall of man, as the bible stated, because he had been punished before that, during the fall of the angels, and he certainly had not caused that one. Aziraphale assumed that if he even had a roll in that -which was significant at all- that with all the work he had done for hell, he would be much higher ranking at the least. Instead, even hell had always treated him, quite unfairly, like a useful nuisance.

“Yeah well, it was a long time ago.” Crowley brushed it off, “And you know...”

He remembered what Aziraphale had said about Crowley not being Crowley.

“Angel, you have a nightmare and all this seems like a reasonable reaction, but you don't -seem- very concerned about not having to imagine.”

He did not seem overly concerned about falling himself, anymore, in something of a hurry.

“Are -you- worried?”

Crowley looked away again. He was unprepared for the question and that was exactly why he asked it. That was not at all fair.

“It just so happens, I'm not actually concerned about it.” he reasoned.

“Oh? That certain of yourself?” Crowley was shifting back towards testy.

“Well obviously I'm concerned about how you'd feel, I just...”

Crowley's eyebrows raised steadily higher, prompting him to go on. After everything he had said it was possible this was a strange thing to get hung up on.

“After all this time, I'm not sure it -really- matters.”

“If you fell?” Crowley asked incredulously, both eyebrows flying upwards.

“Well...” If Crowley was really going to make him explain this, he was not sure how he could manage the words for all of it.

It was true they had already rejected sides in this, and that there would not necessarily be any significant change to his abilities or freedoms, or his lifestyle at all. He already did not want to go back to heaven and rather enjoyed Crowley's company, and was ready to fight to keep it. Crowley had proven he could still do as much good in the world as he wanted regardless. Still this was a bold statement coming from him of all people.

“Perhaps it would be for the better...”

At least, if his fundamental alignment changed, then he did not have to worry about being dangerous to him.

Crowley, meanwhile, looked like his brain might be melting.

“That's not funny.” Crowley said flatly.

“I'm being quite serious.”

He cleared his throat very quietly at Crowley's sudden intensity and closeness.

Another very long stare. Gears suddenly chipped hotly down to metal whirring past more smooth metal.

“Well.” Aziraphale began defensively, “At least then I'd know that if we got discorporated -or worse- then...”

At least they could be relatively certain to go to the same place.

“Oh, no, no, no do not put -this- on me.” Crowley warned him in a hiss.

“You are always asking to be closer, and you -you- don't seem very concerned about being trapped on opposite ends of the cosmos, and you don't seem very worried about the possibility that I might-” he defended irritably, hesitating a little over words he had resisted using for a very long time, and through it almost coming to pass, “...Lose you.” finally saying it out loud.

Crowley felt equal parts like he should be very angry, but also like it was all very sweetly placating and the natural result of this was a very strong mess of emotions that he hated not knowing how to navigate.

“Anyway, I thought that's what you wanted.”

Crowley had two settings for handling emotions. One was to act out dramatically and loudly about it, the other was to stare at them like an overwhelming obstacle in silence. Existential threats often -though not always- got dealt with much like the possibility of losing his favourite car, much to Aziraphale's dismay, despite it generally being a more practical and useful reaction. Emotions, on the other hand, got treated much more the way he expected existential threats should be, and at that very moment, as if on an intensity activated switch, that came to include the ones Crowley himself was experiencing. He was now, in fact, caught up trying to resist turning into his other form.

  
On one hand, what Aziraphale was saying amounted to not really caring about either of their natures so long as they would be allowed each other's company, which was not a confession he could take lightly, and filled him with warmth. It became one of those buoyant bobbles tumbling around in his head and making it hard to catch his other thoughts. On the other hand, it was starting to sound a lot like Aziraphale was not making any distinction between Crowley's want for his company, and Crowley actually wanting him to fall, or trying to tempt him to it, and that was not an accusation he could handle or process; especially not with all these other bright and soft floating things getting in his way. It was all so much light and warmth, and by contrast, it made the rest of everything in his head feel cold and dark.

“I don't... I never wanted...”

The question of Aziraphale falling was a lot like the question of the end of the world. It was one thing to go through the motions of trying, or to act like he was, so long as he knew it would never happen, and quite another thing to think he could cause -or actually had caused- it to come about. He thought, if anything, Aziraphale had understood that, at least from fairly early on.  
Aziraphale heard a small pained voice turn slowly into a hiss and then his pinky was holding the tip of a tail.

“Oh no... Oh, Crowley, don't... I, this... Oh, bugger, this is -why- we don't talk about these things.”

Perhaps it was that Crowley, the snake, looked all too much like he wanted to leave, or that he looked so small sitting on the bench next to him -not as small as the little red belly, but certainly smaller than usual- or that he had relaxed his grip on his hand a little too much for Aziraphale's comfort.

“Oh, stop this.” he said, though he seemed to already acknowledge it was not something Crowley could just -not- do, because he was already moving to do the one thing he thought would get his friend to stay put.

He picked him up. Crowley, in his surprise, tried to give him a look that would encompass all the startled indignation that Aziraphale himself was capable of, and was fairly certain that he managed it, and yet he was still being held, though very gently.

“Oh of course I know that.” Aziraphale started, much too close to the tone of voice he used when Crowley was not Crowley, “You've been having nightmares about that very thing.” he soothed him.

“It's just, well, after you managed to save the world because I threatened to stop talking to you, I thought we were past keeping up pretenses that,” he sighed, “Well that -we- didn't want to be together.”

Now that Crowley was Crowley, Aziraphale held him at a slightly more respectful distance, but still just as softly.

“Not at the expense of...” Crowley hissed angrily, “Of you not being... You!”

Again, the switch flicked, overwhelmed, and he went back to silent staring.

“Of course.” Aziraphale softened, confirming he knew, maybe if he had not fully realized how much hand it had in his anxieties until now,

“Not any more than I want you to stop being Crowley.”

“And what if Crowley iss really just Crawley. What if this iss all that I am deep down? What if I deserve exactly what I got, to sslither and crawl, because all I know how to do iss tarnishh -tempt- and corrupt? What if I am just a wily venomous ssnake who wantss to drag you down with me?” The snake now reared up hissing.

Aziraphale had to stop looking at him like that. Like his heart was breaking for him. Like he wanted to soothe it all way.

“Oh Crowley, that's not what this is, is it?” he said very softly.

Now was really not the time to hold back. It seemed like now was a rare moment of vulnerability that he hoped might help him fix some of the damage he might have done. There were things Crowley should know, that he thought he knew, but he could not really expect him to, if he never actually said them.

“What makess you sssso ssure I'm not thesse thingss?” he hissed in defiance of his own very messy feelings.

“Well,” he said softly after a minute, “Even if you were, I'd remind you that I happen to be very fond of a demon who was named Crawley, and that I'm very thankful to him. I'd remind you that everything he's tempted me into has ultimately been for the better, and has helped me become a better person. I'd have to remind you that I'd still prefer his company to all of heaven's, and that I think small crawly things that try are very admirable and are as much a deserving part of gods creation as anyone... I'd point out that the Crawley I know started doing things out of love a very long time ago, all on his own, even despite not thinking it would be returned and certain he would be punished for it, and that if his love is a corruption to something then that thing aught to be corrupted. And I'd tell you that even if all these things you say sound bad, that they must ultimately -be- good because otherwise you wouldn't want to do them.”

More bright softness tumbled in.

“I tried to tempt you into killing a child.” he reminded him in some terribly small hissing voice.

“You know as well as I why you did that.” he protested.

“Do I now?”

Aziraphale sighed and shook his head, but Crowley was clearly expecting a response, or -he thought- needing one. He glanced around quickly confirming they were still quite alone, the rain now like a sheet of privacy. It seemed that he was not the only one struggling with inner doubts, and maybe hearing it would help.

“You thought it would probably come down to it, that I would get there on my own, one way or another. You knew I'd do anything to protect you from the wrath of hell. Our options were limited. You wouldn't want me to blame myself for it, so...”

If Crowley was the one who suggested it, and convinced him it was the right thing to do, then Crowley could take the blame.

“I sshould have done it.” he said with certainty, “If I thhought it was the right thing, but insstead I whissspered -rationalizationss- in your ear.”

“Nonsense.” he said quietly, chancing to relax his arm and let him rest a little closer, “You are -always- doing the hard things, the mean things, all the terrible business of necessity... All so that I don't have to. All so that -I- never have to feel like anything other than 'the nice one'.” he was almost lamenting it now.

“You never whisper anything to me that you don't think I want, or need, to hear... And I couldn't very well make you have to be the one to do it... You've never had my conviction, and the consequences for you would be...”

Of course he could not let Crowley have to face that alone. He wondered idly if Crowley was actually getting heavier or if it was just tiring to try to hold him at a distance.

“I musst -be- awful though, I was punished above almost all otherss.” he lazily mimicked his phrasing.

Well, at least the rumours and that book insisted so.

Aziraphale knew it much be a sensitive subject, considering that in 6000 years they had not really gotten to discussing it, but -again- he wondered what exactly Crowley's crime had even been.

“I was never really quite clear on that.”

In many ways Crowley was so self-sabotagingly bad at being evil, except by accident, that he had come to be deeply curious about it.

“I've known you this long and I can't actually imagine what you could have done.”

Being punished with the others for fighting on the wrong side was common enough, but it did not explain his reputation, or it somehow being twisted into him having been punished -for- causing the fall of man, unless that was all just human invented nonsense. He had never wanted to push the subject, but maybe it would hold some important insight into his friend's psyche.

“You want to know what my crime wass?” he paused, waiting.

When Aziraphale did not immediately brush it off, he took a deep and long hissing sigh.

“My great ssin was ssilencce.” he paused again while Aziraphale tilted his head slightly.

He highly doubted that. All Crowley ever went on about was that he was punished for asking questions.

“I heard my friends starting to indulge ideas, beliefs more than quessstionss, that I had ssome sensse were probably wrong, but I stayed ssilent. I sstood by and let them, not wanting to upsset them, not wanting to challenge them. It was easssy to let them, easier to not risk their ire, to not be the one who made a big fusss of everythhing. How did I know better than them after all? I sstood by and watched them become extremists, because I didn't want to hurt their feelingss. I let myself doubt, because they were my friends, if it was wrong after all, and I abided by these thingsss, I enabled them, let them feel sssupported in thesse beliefss by my complaccenccy... And then when the war came...”

Certainly, allowing doubt to flourish was the other side of the coin, of questioning everything, the possibility that you might question the wrong things, or not find any certainty to assert what you knew to be right, but he had never heard him assert anything like this angle on it before. Maybe framing it as asking questions was an easier way for him to think of it than simply thinking of it as having come to doubt Her plan, but then, maybe twisting it around this way now was more akin to the way people doubted themselves in the moments where they felt small and terrible; his most vulnerable musings of self-doubt on display.

“You fought beside them because you were their friend, and you felt like it was your fault they were in it, and when they fell, you went with them.” Aziraphale said, now understanding what a slow sauntering to the wrong side could look like in practice.

“And in the end they resented me too.”

“Sso you ssee, I haven't really changed.” he went on, all shame and guilt apparent in his tone.

“Oh Crowley, you can't be serious.” his own voice was quiet and breaking.

Granted, he had seen what evils that kind of complacency allowed to breed in the world, but it was hardly equivalent to the issue at hand. To equate the two and mark it as some morel failure seemed less a reflection of reality and more a reflection of how he felt about himself.

“You don't see it do you?” he asked, becoming aware he was stroking at his neck scales and being more deliberately gentle.

“Of course... I all makes sense.” he said, and -at eyes teetering between hurt and relief- thought he had better start elaborating, “Of course, you couldn't see what was so wrong with having clear knowledge, certainty of right from wrong, and being able to make conscious -deliberate- decisions about it.”

Of course, he wanted a world where others could know better. That was what the whole business with the apple was about, after all. That was why 'go make trouble' somehow translated to 'go tear down the whole system that keeps people living in ignorance and punishes them anyway'.

“You've spent every day since whispering challenges in people's ears, having them question what's really right and what's really wrong, for themselves, regardless of what -anyone- else thinks. You don't see that you've sentenced yourself to an eternity of trying to keep people from their own easy spirals downwards.”

For damnation or for their betterment, he wanted them aware of what they were doing and why, not having to look back at it all with regret and wondering where exactly it all went so wrong.

Sometimes it was so hard to bear, feeling the crashing waves of love and affection off of someone who he was told should be evil and incapable of such things. He supposed that was where his first doubts -in the Great Plan actually being the Ineffable one- had really seeded from. It was almost truly painful, as if even an angel did not really believe he could deserve all of that, and he could not bear to keep looking in his eyes very long, and so he could not imagine that the love he had for his friend was not somehow relentlessly sharp to him.

“Anyway, I don't want you blaming yourself for the choices other people make. You aren't responsible for them, their choices are ultimately their own. You -should- know that. You do, don't you?”

He had been, in all honesty, afraid that too much of his love could change something fundamentally about his friend in a way he feared might be ultimately unhealthy for him, if not directly harmful, but he was gaining some clarity that Crowley could still be Crowley and love himself a little better deep down, and that maybe it was more damaging, if all the love he felt from Crowley was always turned outwards without any of it turned in; maybe it was that which would burn and eat away at him, use him up, if he let it continue.

“Aziraphale....” he started in the quietest whisper, but he did not really know what to say, and so said nothing for a very long moment.

There was a thumb, only slightly rough from handling so much dry paper, gently stroking the side of his neck, reassuring him, trying to comfort him.

“Angel, if you keep this up I suspect I might develop greyss.” he mumbled.

Aziraphale tried not to giggle at him as he seemed to have melted and was lolling to the side as if barely resisting turning slowly throat up. He could practically see all the little lights floating around in his mind through his wide open eyes. The tip of his tail gripped his arm firmly, but otherwise he was relaxed.

“I wouldn't worry about it, though.” said Aziraphale, after a long moment, “Even after what we pulled, even now that half of heaven thinks I must be a demon, and I outright dove out of heaven, my wings haven't gotten any darker.” he indicated the tips of feathers that now stretched out in front of him to shield them both from the rain, “or any better groomed.”

Crowley always had such immaculately kept wings for such a disaster of a person. Demons in general always seemed to somehow.

“Yeah, we should fix that.” he hissed softly as he turned his head a bit lazily.

That was somehow the one thing that got his angel to blush a little and shake his head. Aziraphale's thumb was stroking his side again and he was all out of loud or pointed thoughts, or even the kind that were not just a little bit fuzzy.

“I've always meant to ask...” Crowley grumbled contentedly, “How Angels, of all beings, manage to take such haphazard care of their wings.” he drawled.

“Oh, well, If you're going to drag this confession out of me too... They're... Well they're a little hard to reach in places, and really quite sensitive...”

“Ssenssitivve. Issn't that the point?” he mumbled, tilting his head in a way that suggested he would be raising his eyebrow if he had them.

Aziraphale ignored this, shaking his head again briefly and inspecting the grass next to them in the dark. Of course Crowley would think so, Crowley was, well, Crowley knew how comforting some things could be when the world was a cold and hard place.

“Admit it, you like having your wings touched.” Crowley sighed like he was falling asleep.

Aziraphale looked halfway offended for a moment before regaining his traction.

“Admit you like being held.” he teased fondly.

“If you speak of this to anyone...” Crowley tried to threaten him in a whisper.

“Crowley love, I imagine that if we tell any version of any of this to anyone, we'll be doing a lot of creative shifting around of details... And who's responsible for what.”

“Thank you, angel.” he whispered after a very long moment.

Crowley wanted to ask what exactly happened to everything moving too fast by a few thousand years, and to being in love with the ineffable above all else, but he did not want to say anything that might disrupt this feeling of security, of being home.


	2. Something to hold on to

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley has a new nightmare of his own. More fluff. More being stupidly in love, emphasis on the stupid. Aziraphale comes to a realization about the way they each express and interpret affection. 
> 
> I'm sorry ahead of time for whatever downwards spiral I drag you into. 
> 
> I'm posting this before my internet dies again.
> 
> I'll keep updating the rating as needed, I'm sorry.
> 
> It might still say it's complete because I don't know if I exactly intend to publish or write more each time, but if the story is ever not complete feeling in whatever state I end up leaving it in, I will definitely be sure to change that somehow. I would just upload them as sequels and thus separate and complete stories, but I think they'll end up making more sense and be easier to read in sequence this way in the end. I apologize if this is poor form.

Crowley Opened his eyes slowly, the room spinning as he oriented himself. The first thing he felt was crisp white cotton under his chin, but it was warm. He was warm and felt heavy. He was not yet examining why he was a snake at the moment. A soft sound grabbed his attention and the room snapped into place. He had a very close-up view of a tartan bow tie. He did not know Aziraphale to sleep, but there he was, laying neatly on the couch, shoes and jacket set aside, hands clasped professionally, with coils of a great snake folded over him. Crowley could not remember the walk back to the shop. There was no way to tell what time it was, the light was soft and the door closed, the smell and taste of old books lining the walls. He rested his head back where it was and laid there, telling himself that if he moved he would disturb his friend's sleep. He was his full size again and would think he might be to heavy, but Aziraphale's breathing was deep and even, rocking him slowly.

He did not know how much time had passed when he woke again, this time because Aziraphale's breathing changed, deeper, faster, quieter, more through his nose, the breath of waking. It was easy to just keep laying there a minute, so long as he did not know he was awake yet.

Aziraphale did wonder at times like this, how he could feel such affection at him, and not wake him. It made him wonder if maybe part of the problem was that Crowley had no ability to sense love the way he could at all. He supposed he had found it more convenient to think he could to some degree, enough at least to know how he felt, but maybe that was exactly why he seemed to lack certainty, or how Crowley did not find him so painfully overwhelming to be around; and what then, if he could find a way for him to have a better sense of it? He wondered what the distinction was, in terms of potential harm, between Aziraphale himself feeling these things, and Crowley actually being able to perceive it enough to be affected by it.

In all fairness, this was not exactly the first time this had come up. He did remember trying to reconcile similar considerations the night Crowley had danced into the church to save him. Of all the chance meetings he had encouraged to happen, that was not one of them. Up until that night, meeting strangers in a church made him feel more secure. After that night he ruled out meeting potentially suspicious characters in churches, because if something happened, Crowley would certainly turn up to help. The burns on his feet had been worse than he had let on. He had caught him wincing on the drive back home whenever he had to use the foot peddles.

~*~

Aziraphale had not been able to keep a shy smile off of his face. Crowley had taken to doing such caring things as if they were thoughtless nothings. He tried to play them off like careless slips, but in time the pretense had been dissolving, finally culminating in somewhat bold gestures of care and attention. To think, Crowley, a demon, being so kind to him when he could not even call him his friend out loud. The books being put back in his hands had filled him with a fluttery warmth, enough that he did not even think to protest a ride home, until he noticed the hissing and all of that was quickly replaced with concern.

Crowley tried to play it off like it was nothing, especially when he seemed to hesitate to invite him in. He could not very well do anything about it while they were in the car on the street.

Sitting him down, he expected him to take off his socks and shoes. Instead, perfectly shaped snakeskin shoes morphed into his feet.

“Really?” he said, already on one knee in front of the couch, concern stalling his processing of all else.

“What?”

Aziraphale's hands hesitated to quite take one foot in favour of scolding him a bit longer first.

“You can't just go around walking into churches,” in -what- he did not know how to describe, “Like this.” he put strained emphasis on almost every word.

Crowley made a kind of noncommittal nod to the side and his lips moved as if to form protests, but gave up. Aziraphale was trying to inspect the damage all he could without actually touching him.

“For goodness' sake, Crowley, you're a -demon-.”

His expression turned into a kind of nod, and a quick pout like a shrug.

“You can't -keep doing- these things..” he started off strong, “Not for me.” he said more weakly.

“It's a miracle you didn't catch fire.” he said, taking one foot tentatively in hand, as if afraid touching it would be worse, “...And now look.”

Crowley only could look, as the moment he cupped the back of his heel his brain had gone slightly fuzzy. After a couple of starting and stopping breaths, Aziraphale looked back up at him. He raised his eyebrow rather than try to voice the question.

“Well, I'm not... Not entirely sure if an angel's healing would be helpful?”

“Oh, I'm sure you do this kind of thing all the time...” his voice managed to wiggle out.

Aziraphale was giving him a flat look.

“For humans Crowley, humans. I'm an -angel-.”

“Oh yeah, well, you know, I'm sure it couldn't burn worse... You know, worst case scenario.” he tried to brush it off, voice still escaping past some tension of uncertainty.

He still looked very uncertain.

“What if I try to heal you and it...”

What if with the intent to heal, it would be as potent as something more like holy water than church grounds.

“You're the one who insisted I let you...”

“I know, I know, I know. I just -are you -quite- sure you can't heal them yourself?” he asked.

“Holy damage, nah, they'll heal on their own, eventually.” he reasoned very unreasonably.

“Well you can't just walk around like this until then.”

Crowley seemed to not have more of a response for him than looking down along his shin at him. He wondered how he gave off the impression of blinking without actually doing it.

“I'm sure if you're careful, you couldn't accidentally do too much damage. Your powers work with intent, yeah?”

“Well, I...”

“And you don't -intend- to hurt me, do you?”

“Oh, dear, no, never.” he said with heartbreaking sincerity.

Crowley's voice left off to leave the rest implied at that moment.

“I suppose.” he conceded, looking for some small and succinct spot to think of and heal in isolation, just in case, “Just tell me if anything gets uncomfortable.” he said as he watched the first spot vanish.

When that worked without consequence he tried another, and another, and so on until that foot was healed. When he looked up Crowley was gripping the couch cushion fairly hard and let his lower lip back from between his teeth, but seemed fine otherwise. Aziraphale indicated the other foot and he cooperated re-crossing his legs at the knee.

“There, all better.” he said, looking up, to meet Crowley's eyes which were far closer than expected.

Crowley sat back up straight, allowing him to sit back as well without passing too close to him, another tiny glimpse of teeth disappearing.

Once Aziraphale's concern passed, he seemed to remember himself again. Suddenly he had Crowley sitting in his study and giving him a very long look.

“Right then, well, off you go.” he said very quickly, letting go of his foot and withdrawing to a more dignified distance, now standing awkwardly.

Crowley left quickly and quietly, polite but without fuss. He said nothing more than a surprisingly quiet thanks. He may have forgotten his hat if Aziraphale was remembering correctly.

~*~

That incident had made him wary of situations where Crowley could be hurt worse than that, not sure if having to heal too severe of an injury would be different, and not wanting to face that he would probably hesitate in crucial moments. Once he was gone though, somehow, he could not help but go back to smiling to himself, which lasted only a few days before he was back to questioning if it had been wise at all or just incredibly careless. He knew how reckless Crowley was, and the idea that he might be responsible for hurting him only left him feeling neglectful and guilty. They had been lucky.

They had been lucky so many times, and he felt somehow like he had been consistently failing to be as considerate as he should be, but always in hindsight. Crowley should know that he would move Heaven and earth, literally if he had to, to keep him safe, but maybe there were subtler things he could be doing, not just to keep him safe physically to ensure they could carry on, but to care for him. It was relatively easy, if not for him in particular, to say words of love, and grand gestures were not nothing, but love should be in actions, behaviours, consistent things. Crowley did so many little affectionate things, as if that was how he communicated his feelings, and -certainly- Aziraphale had not failed in the department of quality time, not more recently at the least, but there were so many little acts of devotion and care that he was receiving all the time, and he thought maybe it indicated that these things were what communicated affection to Crowley and that was why he did them. He was starting to think reciprocating these things was important.

Not that there was real cause for concern now. In the weeks that followed Crowley had gone back to having the constant air of practically basking in his company. It was quite enough to make him feel guilty, how far his own gestures of affection stretched, even if putting all of those things into words and saying them out loud was hard for him. He just did not want to wait for the next time Crowley got reckless or testy to have to make it up to him. He did not want to always be fixing things after he had already let them break. There were some things you just could not fix.

It was also becoming very clear to him, especially in hindsight, that physical affection was something that Crowley found very affecting. He had never, and probably would never, press or question for any kind of physical intimacy, which he thought was a little odd for a demon, though he was not sure where he got that idea exactly, if not from humans. Crowley maintained a perfectly respectful distance and never even offered or invited anything except spending time together. The most he would even press -that- was asking all of twice, allowing him to protest idly once if he wanted. Yet it was painfully obvious that he liked being held, that it comforted him and put him at ease in a very visceral way, but Crowley would never ask, and Aziraphale did not know how to offer. After that one night, once Crowley had extracted himself as politely as possible, he had withdrawn to a perfectly respectful distance and never mentioned it again.

Aziraphale had overlooked this until recently, in part because of his inability to always read the reactions he was getting, and in a large part because he associated physical expressions of love as an unnecessary superficiality, something humans did for primarily biological bonding reasons. Angels did not suffer from the same hard-wiring in so far as he could tell, and he assumed they both found human intimacy to be alienating. Crowley had actually seemed incredibly offended the one time his tongue slipped and he called what they were doing fraternizing, as if it was mere flirtation, as if it was anything more superficial than a bond that defied the words and concepts humans invented for describing personal intimacy; as if the suggestion of it needing to be anything more than it was to be considered of an importance, beyond what he could possibly have or seek with anyone else, was terribly offensive. In hindsight that was clearer. Really if Aziraphale had not been so caught up in concerned outrage at the time, he was not sure how he would have ever been able to look him in the eyes again.

Perhaps Crowley was at odds with himself over it, and it was possible it was better to let it lay, even if that seemed a bit -or more- unfortunate. He would be sure to make his hand available though, if ever it seemed like Crowley might actually want to take it. In the meantime, he was just happy to see him seeming so well rested and content.

Crowley, meanwhile, if he was thinking in terms of anything but poorly veiled happy sighing, was struggling, and outright failing, to process that after all this time, he only had to express how he was feeling -even poorly- and it was immediately addressed. Unfortunately, all the gears were still smooth metal at a complete disconnect, and the snakes trying to hold them to each other kept slipping back off. He himself had spent thousands of years afraid to say something that might ultimately hurt his angel, and it had done them a disservice. If they could have had some exchange like this before, certainly there had been time wasted on mutual confusion and hurt feelings when they could have been spending time together that was less fraught with doubt. He had -some- level of awareness that what he craved above all else was emotional intimacy, though maybe not in those words. They were, for better or worse, ageless, but not necessarily immortal in the invulnerable sense, and on the perpetual edge of either living forever or dying tomorrow; it was bound to result in some pacing issues.

Any awkwardness he could possibly be feeling over the whole thing was being robed of its sting by acceptance and a lot of very warm and fuzzy things. All those kind words were far more than he had ever expected, and -despite that he was the one constantly offering more closeness- he was still overwhelmed by it. Aziraphale made a constant game of needing little things from him so he could do them, thus providing whatever reassurance or affection he was asking for. Crowley never reciprocated this behaviour. He saw now that it was likely a fear of the gesture not being returned, even if it was because Aziraphale would fail to pick up on his hinting, and he did feel like the intent to reciprocate was there now at least. The only thing he was used to asking for was to spend time together and Aziraphale had an ancient habit of declining that he was slowly breaking. These days, in fact, it was suddenly Aziraphale who would offer more often than not, as if finally comfortable assuming it was what Crowley wanted, and more a question of asking him what he would like to do together.

The answer was, generally, go about their lives, together more often than not, and he was starting to think he needed hobbies. They had been being kept busy enough with the work they were supposed to be doing, but now they thought interfering too much in human affairs would only be calling attention to themselves that they did not want, even ignoring that Adam had implied he wanted them all to stop toying so much with humans. Aziraphale had his books, and they did things together, but Crowley was also left alone with his thoughts and feelings too much for his own comfort. This had been resulting in an increase in naps. He was not sure it was at all a bad thing to have his time filled with rest and quality time with his friend, but he thought he could try adding something to the mix more than plants. There was nothing human books on astrology could tell him about the stars that he did not know better, and there was only so much news about them discovering more of it that came along. Listening to music at whatever volume he pleased in his own apartment was fine and all, but he was considering picking something up to occupy his hands.

He wondered idly if painting was a good choice as he wandered out to the breakfast table. Aziraphale put two things down in front of him, the first being his breakfast with eggs exactly how he liked them, and the second a large gift bag.

“What's this?” he asked, again with the impression of blinking.

Maybe it was something in how his pupils contracted and dilated, as if adjusting themselves.

“Well I...” he suddenly seemed to be having second thoughts.

Crowley took the bag before he could think better of it.

“How -have- you been sleeping?” Aziraphale asked, and Crowley was not sure if he was changing the subject.

He had been sleeping decently enough. At least the dreams had died down for the moment and he felt like he was getting rest. He somehow had not broken his new habit of falling asleep on the couch, and always seemed to wake up with his head under the pillow that was now left there for him, and the leather stuck against his cheek was not his favourite sensation to wake to. If he was honest with himself, he would say that the warmth, cotton and slow rocking had been much preferable, but he could hardly say that. The last thing he wanted was for Aziraphale to feel obligated to do anything he did not want to, for any reason.

“Fiiine.” he said, somehow shrugging expressively with only his face.

“You wouldn't rather be warmer?” he was being asked.

He was trying to figure out what exactly his friend was implying, trying to re-frame the question outside of the context of his own thoughts. Crowley did not have an answer or a protest exactly, but now Aziraphale seemed to be indicating the bag.

“A blanket?” his eyebrow raised.

“A heated one.” Aziraphale asserted, looking at least a little pleased with himself.

That expression faltered when he stared at him too long.

“I- I know you said you don't get cold, and you've made your feelings about a lot of things very clear, but...”

But he had also outright confessed that when he was a snake he was somewhat bound to actually being one, and snakes almost certainly got cold. Also Crowley was often obviously cool -or cold- to the touch, even in human form and did not even seem to be able to fully control leaning into warm things.

“Well I thought a heating pad would be a little on the nose, but if you -do- get cold, it would be nice if you had something to keep you warm... I'm sorry, was this insensitive?”

“No.” Crowley said quickly, pressing his lips together into another shrug, “No it's... Thoughtful.” he said giving it a long look, and suddenly clearly trying to hide suddenly being more emotional than he thought was warranted.

It was even a beige tartan, something he knew was intended to remind him of who it was from.

“Thank you, angel.”

Aziraphale could sense the affection, and certainly he seemed moved, almost guilt-inducingly so, but he also could not shake the feeling that Crowley seemed vaguely disappointed as he set the bag down to finish his breakfast.

“You can take it where you want to, of course, but there is a plug in the study that it should reach.”

Crowley looked back up, still seemingly having trouble figuring out what facial expression he wanted to make. Little black and red snakes were trying to act as belts between the gears, nipping desperately at their own tails, but the little angels floating around kept lifting them back off and telling them that such work was dangerous and hard on their lovely bellies. It really was a kind gesture, that Aziraphale wanted to provide what comfort he could, even to parts of him that he was half in the habit of denying. Even Crowley could not quite place why his heart sank a tiny bit, even as it fluttered uselessly.

Of course it made sense, that Aziraphale would withdraw again. He was not even sure how they had ended up in that situation to begin with, as it was all some kind of accident. It was nice, but he did not expect it to continue. That did not keep him from waking up with his cheek pressed to the couch cushion where it still smelled vaguely of him and the rain from that night, and it was enough to make him curse his sense of smell, but it was not important. What was important was that they were free and safe, and they could spend their days together and talk late into the nights. That was more than enough and overwhelming in its own right already. Aziraphale was putting unprecedented effort already into being not just considerate, but affectionate with his words, and words were something he struggled with. Crowley knew words were his first line of defence, his go-to emotional barrier, the way he distanced himself. For that to have been set aside so intentionally, for his sake, he could only be appreciative.

He also could not help occasionally having a dream, processing that memory, and waking up as a snake, and that was a new inconvenience, but he figured that would wear off after a while. The nights were starting to get cooler and the heated blanket was soft and progressively nicer to twist himself up in, regardless of his form. Some mornings Aziraphale would peek back into the office and check on him. He always pretended to be sleeping if he woke, and every time he did he would see him smile fondly, and -on the few occasions he was a snake wrapped up in the blanket- actually bring his hand to his heart. It was almost embarrassing. He was not used to being on the receiving end of so much attention. He tried to resist his impulses to find ways to reciprocate more than he already was, he knew just watching someone appreciate what you did for them was very rewarding. It was nice, even if he was awkward at accepting it.

Aziraphale found his time occupied quite completely without having to run around on behalf of heaven and hell. He had all the time he wanted in his book shop, and also any time he could ask or allow for with Crowley. It had become something of a friendly game to him. Crowley never asked for anything, and accepted everything quietly and graciously, so trying to find what things he preferred over others was a game of careful observation. He could -for example- make him eggs any number of ways, or take him to any number of places that actually served something he would eat, but Crowley was insistently amenable about everything so long as they were doing it together, leaving Aziraphale to take note of how much and how fast he ate things in overall trends to figure out what he liked best. It was particularly rewarding when he ate enough to come home -to his shop, he corrected himself- and immediately fall asleep.

So far he had learned that he did not like anything overcooked, and neither bland, nor too strongly flavoured, did not like overly heavy meals, on -most- occasions, until he did, and seemed to like food more or less based on emotional considerations more than anything. He was far more likely to eat something if Aziraphale prepared it himself, as opposed to a restaurant, which -he supposed- was part of why they ate in slightly more. He was reluctant to order things for himself, but if he seemed interested in anything and Aziraphale offered small portions of it, he accepted increasingly often, especially as Aziraphale started trying to order things he might like. It seemed he liked getting drinks, or having them, because it always lead to long and meandering conversations full of reminiscing, but Aziraphale had never gotten the impression he drank all that much by himself or ever really ate much alone. It was all very endearing. He seemed to like when they occasionally went up to the roof at night so they could stretch their wings in the night air, but he was still unconvinced that was not about being reassured they had not changed, aside from whatever indulgence it was otherwise to actually be able to unfurl them.

Seven in the evening rolled around a couple of months into the winter and he noticed Crowley had not come home yet; to the shop, of course, Aziraphale suspected he -was- actually still at his own place. When he called him to ask if he wanted to go get a hot drink of some kind, he was surprised that he actually picked up. He did not sound like he had woken him this time at least, though that was starting to get concerning in its own right. He did not seem to be sleeping less than usual, but seemed increasingly tired. He had assumed this was because he usually took other naps throughout the day and had recently stopped.

“Crowley,” he asked, once they were handed their drinks by the vendor, “Is everything alright?”

“Hm? Yeah, no, everything is... fine. No complaints.”

Aziraphale wondered if that was part of the problem, but let it slide. They quickly ended up back at the shop, making him wonder why it was important to drag themselves away from the warmth of the shop just to get drinks. He liked the coco, but he still was not convinced Crowley was as comfortable in the cold as he insisted. They settled in for the evening before Aziraphale noticed something on Crowley's hand.

Crowley managed half an offended look at having his cup taken from him and set aside, until his hand was being held up for inspection and he immediately forgot he had a drink.

Aziraphale had seen red and acted impulsively, but now he was seeing a lot of dark blue too, some yellow and a bit of white. It seemed like paint.

“Oh.” he said, feeling a bit silly.

Still, it was not all bad, Crowley was giving him that look again. He missed seeing that look. After waiting months to see it only proven that Crowley would never ask for anything like this, he did not actually want to let go. It could be years, maybe centuries until the next thing that made him forget himself enough to reach out. Within a moment it was probably obvious he was looking for an excuse to keep holding his hand, and he felt self-conscious, but Crowley was just patiently watching him, of course. He rubbed a thumb gently over some of the paint, gently testing if it would come off.

“I see you've been painting.” he said, his voice sounding uncertain to his own ears as he continued gently massaging the paint from his hand.

When it was clear he was not going to realize what he was doing and stop, Crowley let himself relax.

“Er, yeah.” he said awkwardly, when he realized he had taken far too long to answer.

“And how is that going?” Aziraphale asked

This earned him another facial shrug.

“All right.” he said very quietly.

This was more the reaction Aziraphale would expect to see on a more regular basis, if Crowley could sense love the way he did. Of course, that would make sense too, if his punishment included the emotional and psychological effects of being like mortals, to not have that sense of -and certainty in- things like love and acceptance. Humans did things all the time to communicate these things specifically because they lacked that sense. He was not sure either of them could invest more time in each other, and Crowley did not seem to mind having things done for him, he did not seem to mind things in general, but somehow it felt that -despite being appreciated- it was all falling slightly flat, especially gifts for some reason, even if they were clearly appreciated, he could not shake the sense of slight disappointment tied up in so much gratitude. He thought he should consider reviewing his reading on how humans expressed affection in tangible ways.

“Everything is alright then?” he asked again, cursing that he was running out of paint.

“You've asked me that twice.” Crowley observed.

“Well,” he sighed gesturing to ask for the other hand, “You've begun to look tired again.” he admitted, relieved when Crowley shifted to let him take it, “Have you been sleeping soundly?” he asked, shifting forward just slightly so it was less awkward, almost letting their knees touch.

Crowley made a noncommittal sound before he could stop himself. Then rolled his eyes at the way Aziraphale was looking at him. He did not really want to explain that he was suddenly having problems controlling his form when he was asleep, or that -because of that- he had been getting really cold now that they were in the dead of winter.

“It's not warm enough is it?”

“Wha... No it's...” Crowley said shaking his head.

He really did like the blanket, and he thought it was very kind. Aziraphale did not seem to be buying it though.

Aziraphale had noticed that for the past month, he had been getting smaller in his sleep, twisting around more, bundling up tighter, as if trying to cover himself more with more of the blanket, as if trying to make its warmth big enough by comparison. It was a particularly harsh winter, and these were particularly old buildings. Crowley also seemed to be having a harder time finding words at the moment as he finished massaging at the muscle near his thumb and followed the paint up his wrist.

“I should have got the one with more settings.” Aziraphale said offhandedly

“It's not the blanket's fault.” he tried to brush it off, “Besides, then it might get too hot, where the er-the wires are.” he brushed at it fondly with his free hand.

“Well, you could bring another blanket with you. Or I could...”

Crowley supposed the reason he had not brought another was because then he would have to admit, not that he was staying there on purpose, but that he had no intention of not allowing it to happen. He thought sudden liberties and familiarity would have Aziraphale withdraw again, and he liked being there. That said, his hand was still being held and he had never been joined on the couch before, even if it was from an awkwardly respectful distance, and this sounded like an invitation.

“You don't have to keep buying me things.” he said, his voice betraying that he was acutely aware Aziraphale was holding his hand without any remaining excuse.

Aziraphale sighed. That was not what he was trying to offer, and perhaps confirmed that gifting him with things was not exactly the communication either of them was looking for. Crowley had never struck him as after anything in particular, but he did so obviously derive security and comfort from being held, and he -wanted- to offer, he just struggled with doing it. Putting those things into words felt like confessions and those were hard for him. He motioned for Crowley to switch hands again and he did so, now leaning on the other on the arm of the couch, still watching him intently. He held his finger tips between his hands, to find that they were a bit cold.

“Would you like it if I...” he asked quietly and Crowley lifted his head minutely off of folded fingers, waiting.

Aziraphale was already having such a hard time getting the words out, that now Crowley was immensely curious as to what this was about, already somehow sensing its nature. Now he was rubbing the back of his hand smoothly with both thumbs.

“For tonight, would it be better if...” Crowley's heart sank a little, thinking he was going to try to make sure he went back to his apartment, “If I were to...”

He felt ridiculous. He was reminded of the first time that he had asked Crowley out to a proper dinner, despite that Crowley had been offering his companionship for hundreds, even thousands, of years, his nerves had still been all over the place. The way Crowley had been acting for the past couple months or so reminded him of the time too; suddenly almost docile. It would be concerning to see if he was not so clearly happy. He straightened up slightly and stopped speaking to the back of his hand.

“Would you like to be held?” he asked him softly.

Crowley's head flopped somewhat dramatically to the other side to rest against the back of the couch.

“That's not necessary.” he practically whispered, though it was clearly idle protest, and that was Aziraphale's job.

“Well, dear boy, I didn't ask if it was necessary, I asked if you would -like- it.” he quipped, glancing away a moment.

Crowley nodded vaguely against the couch.

“Well then, let's set these aside.” he suggested, reaching slowly to remove his sunglasses.

He half expected for Crowley to interrupt him, but he let him. Aziraphale was probably the one person who could be allowed to remove them for him. He lifted them gently away to reveal bright yellow eyes that were wider than usual, and reached over to set them down next to the forgotten cup. Perhaps this had been slightly bold of him, as Crowley promptly changed form. He still was not the usual fifty pounds or so of something resembling a very solid black and red boa, but at least he was not small enough this time to seem fragile. Aziraphale shook his head, but he could not help but smile. It would be less awkward to fit on the couch this way anyway. He got up to take off his jacket and loosen his bow tie, and found that Crowley had moved to the top of the couch. He adjusted the pillow and the blanket and laid down, lifting the top of the blanket out of the way so Crowley could pour down off the back of the couch to rest on his chest. He tucked him in, finally resting one hand over him, under the blanket so he could feel if the heating wires were too hot on the back of his hand, and because he suspected Crowley would prefer it.

“There, how is that?” he asked, getting a quiet little wiggle, chin first, into his chest, in response.

Feeling the smooth warm cotton under his chin and being surrounded in warmth, soft touches and familiar smells made him realize just how much he had missed this. Aziraphale did not generally sleep for his own sake, and laying down probably would wrinkle his clothing more than he liked -in fact, Crowley wondered if he even owned pyjamas- and yet he was here, just because he wanted to do something Crowley would appreciate. It was overwhelming and wonderful.

Sleep came easy again that week. He did not have to ask for anything, it seemed assumed that if the night was cold -an excuse or not- he would want to be held, and Aziraphale offered, if subtly. It was not really a question of whether he wanted to change form or not anymore, it had become automatic. Perhaps it was, in part, because this was how they established this contact in the first place, and part of the reason why Aziraphale had been comfortable picking him up to begin with, but then after all this time this was so much all at once, and maybe Crowley himself was still processing it.  


~*~

Crowley was in the desert, or at least he seemed to be, it was dusk and overcast enough that the sand had not gotten too hot. Everything looked nearly uniformly grey, and there was a weight in the air, and a wet chill, as if it was going to rain. He thought maybe he heard thunder in the distance. The sand's moderate warmth was actually a relief against it all. Crowley wound over the sand, leaving repeating patterns behind him. Aziraphale was there in the distance, so he went to see him. Aziraphale looked almost grey in this light too, even his bright wings. As he slithered up behind him, he noticed his approach and turned.

“Ah, Crowley, it's good that you're here, there's something I want to show you.” he said.

Something was off. Aziraphale was a little -too- perfectly well put together, not in the nice and tidy way he usually was, but rather, in a way that suggested a kind of vanity. He stood stiffly and his motions were coldly deliberate, his gaze steady and unabashed. There was a light in his eyes, but it was a glint now, more than a spark, dangerous and hungry. His wings appeared white at first glance, as they were, but the light coming from within them was not just off, but negative, a radiating darkness.

If this was one of his dreams, now would be the time he would start blaming him, telling him how terrible he was, telling him he was leaving, going very far away and not coming back. Instead Aziraphale smiled, but it was not really warm. Crowley rose up and tried to speak and only hissing came out. He took human form and still only hissing came out.

“Oh, don't worry Crowley, dear...” he said, approaching him.

The demon Aziraphale ran his hand tenderly up the back of his neck and into his hair, gripping him harshly.

“I didn't fall because of you.” he said methodically, tilting his head as if appraising him.

He pulled him firmly down and forward, as if to kiss him roughly, but moved past him to whisper hotly into his ear.

“I fell because you made me -want- to.”

~*~

Aziraphale was startled awake by Crowley tensing. It was not quite being constricted when he was folded back and forth over him and the couch was on his back, but he was his full size and weight and tensing as if alarmed.

Now, Aziraphale had gone through his paces over the years learning, as best he could, to read Crowley; especially his eyes. His pupils did not dilate the way you would quite expect a human's to, but also not quite entirely like a snake's. Crowley did, in effect, have a snake's eyes, but he also had strikingly human emotions for an angel, fallen or not, and had been around humans for six thousand years; not to mention inhabiting the sympathetic and parasympathetic nervous system of what was effectively a human body. So understanding what the dilation of his pupils meant -for instance- took understanding what was shared, over all the confusing and -often opposite seeming- differences.

A human's pupils, in general, got larger when they had positive emotions about something, to let more light, and thus more information in, but smaller in response to stress, and of course light. This generally meant a human's pupils dilated for positive reasons. A snake's, on the other hand, with some exception, dilated when they were hunting or preparing to strike, though similarly, to take in more light and thus more information, whereas they tended to get smaller in bright lights, as the majority of snakes were nocturnal or crepuscular. This would -seem- rather opposite of humans, in that smaller pupils would tend to denote calm, or -if very small- that things were too bright, and large pupils would indicate aggression. The only direct parallel that could be drawn between all manner of creatures was that larger pupils let in more light and more information, and smaller ones let in less light and less stimulation.

And that was how Aziraphale came to understand, in his own way, to read Crowley's. Small pupils could mean bright lights like they did for snakes or humans, but they could also mean over-stimulation and distress that went beyond trying to process it, and into a kind of panic. Open pupils -could- mean he was gearing up for quick action or a fight, to strike, so to speak, but also -very generally- trying to take in more information as quickly as possible, processing but not yet overwhelmed; which could also mean he was enjoying something, depending on the context. In between they were relaxed, neither scrambling for extra information, nor tensed against anything. All of that considered, the way his pupils were flashing back and forth between far too small and far too big -though visually a subtle difference- without settling in between, in combination with the squeezing and having lifted his head to stare as if in alarm, told him that he was clearly terrified in some way, trying but very unable to process. He was surprised that nothing about the set of his jaw looked ready to strike at something, but held very still anyway.

“Crowley.” he spoke very gently.

That seemed to get his attention some, maybe bring him to the present.

“Crowley it's me, it's Aziraphale.”

Crowley looked at him a little more steadily. It was. It was Aziraphale looking at him with a good deal of concern, slightly dishevelled from sleeping -or not sleeping- under him on the couch all night.

“Oh, you poor thing, you've had a nightmare.” he said, adjusting himself up just slightly.

Crowley thought it was somehow underselling it to call it that, unfair, even.

Aziraphale watched his eyes go back to relatively normal, but the tensing did not really stop, it just became a periodic involuntary spasm. When he reached slowly up to him Crowley almost flinched away, so he stopped. He pulled his hands back slowly, high enough on his chest to give him space, and undid the cuff of his sleeves very subtly. His tail was tensing against him and the couch, as if trying to wrap around his shin, so he lifted his foot slightly to let him, giving him something to hold properly. He made a gesture like there was noting up his sleeves, but moved them very intentionally out of the way, finishing by displaying open palms. He was relieved when Crowley touched the tip of his snout to one hand and laid back down against his chest, letting him hold him. Coils wrapped over his forearms, pinning him, but did not squeeze quite too hard.

“That's it. You're okay. We both are.” he consoled him, not knowing what the dream was about, but having some idea of what could scare him like that.

He rubbed his thumbs gently against him and that seemed to help too. Now a full sized snout and chin dug gently against his chest, tasting the air just subtly. His breathing seemed to go back to normal and the squeezing stopped.

“I'm here.” he got another squeeze, but this time it seemed intentional, gentler, and a deep sigh.

Eventually it was past noon and Aziraphale asked him if he wanted brunch. Crowley was starting to think that their hobbies were not enough. Usually he had the distraction of work to keep his mind busy, off of less convenient things, and he felt like he had far too much time to dwell on the personal. His apartment had become progressively more filled with plants already, as had the book shop, and now canvas and paint littered his once unused living area. Still, he had this nagging sense of a vague winding, in some direction, and he did not know where it was going. That made him nervous.

The long morning of being held securely was nice, and went a long way towards settling his nerves, if he could admit to having any. Aziraphale had intentionally gone out of his way to offer him more skin contact, as if knowing that was what would soothe him. His warm hand settled over the back of his neck and stroking him gently could have been very reminiscent of the dream, but there was such tenderness and softness in it that it broke that spell. His angel was always so careful not to be rough with him, even to the point he already suspected it could get frustrating. Eventually they got up to have brunch.

Aziraphale was making them eggs to go along with a couple of pastries from a local shop. Somewhere in his own kitchen there was a tomato plant waiting to be brought over, once it had ripe fruit, because he thought it might be an addition Aziraphale would appreciate. What food Crowley was going to eat he ate fairly quickly, leaving him to watch him enjoy the rest of his breakfast.

He was used to Crowley watching him eat, if he was perfectly honest. He pretended not to notice, because it was one of the most awkward habits he had. He seemed to find it interesting, that an angel would eat, at first a kind of fascination, and then eventually a habit. Aziraphale had almost forgotten he went through a phase or two of glaring at his food instead, until this moment. He had always made a point to not try to guess at what that was about. Not that he was glaring exactly, this time, but he did seem to be in some kind of growing distress.

The thought that had gripped him against his will at this particular moment was exactly and precisely just how much Aziraphale enjoyed food, in part -he had always assumed- because it was one of the few earthly pleasure he thought he should be allowed to indulge in, something he saw as harmless. Now he had fresh confessions in his head that Aziraphale no longer cared who or what he was defying, and off the back of a dream -that left chills down his spine that were not completely fear- no less.

Aziraphale watched his pupils widen slowly, processing, trying to process, and then the snap shut of hitting a wall, an obstacle that was too much.

“Sssssshhhit.” Crowley swore to himself before he could help it.

“Dear boy, Is something the matter?” he asked with sweet concern.

He opened and closed his mouth a few times. Shaking his head, but clearly caught up on something. He put his sunglasses back on.

“Er, yeah it's all uh, tickity-whatever...” he scratched idly at his chin, avoiding looking at his food again, “I just forgot about something.” he lied.

Aziraphale did not seem to be buying it, but -thankfully- let him leave without making a big deal of it, at least once he said he would be back that evening.

It did at least seem that he had not done anything wrong, Crowley did not seem upset with him, in fact, forgetting himself and almost leaning in for something before he rushed off. He was a little concerned, but he was sure Crowley could handle whatever mischief he had made for himself.

“Shit.” Crowley hissed to himself a couple of times quietly, absently, on the way back to his apartment.

Even though it was a short distance, sometimes he still drove, and he was thankful for that now. He tried to drown out his thoughts with music.

He was actually decidedly not processing what he was so upset about. He was putting very real effort into not doing that. Now the little angel lights in his head were grabbing gears and turning them very intentionally in patterns, trying to make the machine of his mind do very particular work while little snakes tried, ineffectively, to drag and coax them away. On his way in, he passed the statue, the one of an angel and a fallen angel wrestling, and he could not help but think it all looked a little backwards, even if it was supposed to be good that was losing, or especially so. He cursed again, storming smoothly into his living room and picking up a paintbrush, pressing whatever button he thought should turn his music up to the right volume, and it obeyed.

He had been painting abstractions mostly, to start, something resembling stars and planets, then something verdant and fresh, then the desert outside of Eden. Now he went back to abstract, with an aggressive choice of colours. When he finally felt satisfied with it he sat back on the couch and glared hard at the canvas before deciding that what he really needed was a long nap.

He woke to an insistent knock at his door.

“Crowley, for heaven's sake, open this door.”

The concern in his voice had Crowley across his flat and at the door before he stumbled from how quickly he had gotten up.

Suddenly the door did open and Crowley was there, looking dishevelled, and bleary eyed, maybe a little pained, but no more so than would be expected from sudden light.

Crowley watched him shift from concerned to a little embarrassed.

“Well, when you hadn't come back and you didn't answer the phone I-”

His mind had jumped to some kind of retaliation against him, by heaven or hell, to him being in danger. Now Crowley looked soft, eyebrows pushed together gently in surrender to a sweet kind of pain, and tall frame leaned so casually between the wall and the open door. He was wearing a soft black undershirt, faded, and lounging pants. His hair was a thing entirely unto itself, being so perfectly, charmingly disorganized, and made him think of his friend curled up blissfully in plush, soft things. He did not want to think he had interrupted something so enjoyable.

“Should I?” he would offer to leave, let him get back to the sleep he so enjoyed, but Crowley did not look like he wanted him to leave.

“Or you could-” Crowley almost jumped away from blocking the door, offering him entry.

He had not been in his living space very often, and not this one yet at all; not since he had fully moved in. He had to admit to being curious, especially at what he was filling his time with now.

“I wouldn't want to interrupt...” he protested somewhat idly, already letting himself move inside.

Everything was so green it distracted him for a moment. Sure, he knew Crowley kept plants, but he suspected this was some disastrous combination of suddenly living in a smaller space, and also having far more free time than he was used to. He wondered if keeping so many plants could count as a kind of hoarding. Looking at it all now he was struck by how obvious it seemed some -perhaps unconscious- attempt to recreate Eden, and how that had not quite fully clicked until this moment. The other obvious and eye catching addition was an easel with a large and very colourful canvas on it.

An abstraction of a figure writhed in something encompassing true agony and complete rapture, clashing with the softness and reach of willing surrender. Something in the strokes at the top of the canvas seemed gentle and a kind of casual meandering, and yet so much of it came to incidental points that spawned harsh and cutting lines. There was so much red and deep blue like fire and void, but also light yellow and swirling soft colours. It was an interesting use of a palate to be sure. It was beautiful and hard to look at. It was so much raw emotion poured out on the canvas that he felt like he had interrupted something private. Brushes still sat shoved in a jar to soak and the air still smelled of acrylic. Parts of the painting still shone as if wet.

“Oh don't mind that it's, er-” Crowley tried to brush it off.

“Lovely.” Aziraphale breathed.

Lovely and heartbreaking.

Crowley immediately stopped talking and blushed, hand going into his hair but not really helping it settle any. He offered Aziraphale a seat on the couch, which was, thankfully, a good and respectful distance away from where the paint was. Crowley sat tentatively next to him before relaxing and spreading out a bit more. He supposed sitting next to each other even when they had options was what they both preferred now.

Aziraphale eyed the paint on his hands and arm and sighed. He was clearly emotional about something, but he could not tell what it was exactly or in what way, he only suspected it had something to do with them; especially now. Something he could not really define about that painting was cutting. He took one paint smeared hand and Crowley slid the other from under his chin to folded against his mouth, muffling his breath behind it. If he had the room to be honest with himself, he loved the way Crowley looked at him.

He supposed he did; have that space after all. If he could confess to everything he had, if they were really just on their side, them against the world, for the world, and if pretense and barriers he had outgrown would only hurt Crowley, then he could probably do to settle with himself about a good deal more. They were best friends and had been drawn back together no matter what they did for over six millennia, they were closer to each other than anyone, and had proven they would defy any force to stay together. It seemed silly now to make any pretense otherwise and he had run out of reasons to. When Crowley looked at him like this, it was honest and open, made plain that simple touches soothed him, quieted him, sapped him of anything resembling aggressive energy. He just wished he could fix whatever was lacing it with something akin to pain. He had never been any good at these things.

This time he noticed the paint peeled away a bit easier, revealing soft skin. Maybe he had recently bathed, or had been sweating. He did not think Crowley was one to bother moisturizing his skin, but maybe it got dry in winter if he did not. He was going to ask him of he minded this, but that was not really the issue. He was not doing this for himself, he was doing it because Crowley seemed to like it and it seemed a good enough excuse as any, and they seemed to have established this was okay, that it was comfortable. Maybe what he wanted was confirmation that Crowley really did like it and was not just abiding by it for some reason. Massaging the tense muscle at the base of his thumb made him breathe out heavily through his nose, his hand still blocking it from coming through anywhere else.

“Is everything okay, dear?” he finally asked, though maybe that was not what he wanted.

“T's fine.” Crowley spoke against his hand, his voice only slightly high.

It somehow straddled the line between very convincing or not at all. Now it was Aziraphale's turn to give him a long look. He sighed. Maybe he had responded too poorly too many times when Crowley made it too plain what he wanted or needed. Maybe he had made it so that unless he was desperate about something he would not really say what he would prefer, one way or the other. The last thing he wanted was to somehow overstep some boundary by making any assumptions though.

“You -do- like this don't you?” he asked quietly.

Crowley looked between his face and his hand in the world's most subtle nod. At least he thought it was a nod.

“What was that?” he asked as if he had not heard his response.

His brow tensed, but Aziraphale did not relent.

“Yes, alright.” he lamented rolling his head to look away.

The warm and only slightly dry skin rubbing methodically across his hand and forearm was like someone plucking gently at his heartstrings. There was such care in it, and every moment of it reminded him of how it started, that if Aziraphale thought he was hurt he lost all his sense of where his walls were and reached though on impulse to make sure he was okay. Normally those walls went back up in a terrible hurry, but not this time. Something was different this time. Aziraphale had gotten brave, bold even. More than that, before it was so hard to tell where exactly to draw the line between what he did not want and what he was denying himself, but now it seemed he was done denying himself anything and that was -not altogether unpleasantly- chilling. He did not know what to do when the one stable thing he had been holding onto let go willingly and left them both in a kind of free fall. He had not thought this far. He had not let himself ruminate on what he would like or what he would prefer, because it was all off the table. All he had ever wanted was to be able to be honest about being friends, about being important to each other. Now he suddenly had that, in spades.

This was nice though, even if it was overwhelming at this point. He kind of liked things that were overwhelmingly pleasant and welcome. It was like the inverse of torture. Torture he had known enough, now basking in attention like this was some kind of long craved counterpoint, but he did not know what response he was supposed to be able to scrape together for it. More than that though, he did not want this to all just be because Aziraphale had -finally- caught on that he enjoyed the contact. He did not want this to be something he was doing only because he felt like it was wanted or expected of him, and if he expressed too much -just how much- he liked or wanted anything, he was concerned it would create that pressure.

Being a demon gave him more than enough experience being expected to use -or make use of- his own body in various ways, to tempt, to use as a tool to make people do things that were truly destructive and harming, and it was never something that sat well with him. His body was supposed to just be a vessel, a body handed out like a weapon on the way into battle. He was not supposed to identify with it, but he did. He did and he knew it was the same for Aziraphale. They identified with these bodies like humans did whether or not they knew they existed beyond them. This body was his, and he hated having physical things expected of him because if it, and to put that kind of pressure or expectation on someone so dear to him was not something he could be comfortable with. It did not matter how small or seemingly innocent the act. Aziraphale held out his hand for his other. He held back the whine in his throat.

“You don't have to.” he said quietly, only barely removing his hand from his own face.

“Dear boy, have you ever once been given the impression you can make me do anything I don't want to?”

“No, I-”

If he wanted to protest further he would have to put into words that there was a distinction between making him do things he did not want, and making him want things.

“I don't have to though, if you'd rather not?” he intoned it like a question, now looking slightly out of place, uncertain.

Crowley took it back, this was torture, he had just finally been twisted around enough to enjoy it.

“What is all of this about?” Crowley dodged the implied question that stung at him.

What it was about was the Aziraphale had spent time going over some things and realized that all these little acts of service Crowley had always graced him with the moment he hinted he wanted it, those were how -Aziraphale- communicated love, he had effectively asked for them each time and Crowley had obliged, they were his love language, not Crowley's. They had quality time in common, thankfully, that was some mercy on his conscience, but all this time Crowley had been attentively telling him how he felt in whatever ways he asked or allowed for and he had been, in many ways, relying on some flawed assumption that Crowley could sense love like he could. The reaction he had gotten these past months over kind words and caring touches told him that it was what he had really craved all long, even if he did not know.

He did not know how to voice to Crowley that he suspected the poor dear did not even seem aware of what his own love language was, not in technical terms, but at all, having never been on the receiving end of it enough to know. Even if he forgave himself enough not to feel at all guilty, it still made him want to shower him with whatever kind of affection he would understand most, not in abstraction, but viscerally. If he looked close to tears he could not really help it.

“Well...” Aziraphale seemed pained, “You seem to... You -like- being held, don't you? And I-” he held his hand in both of his, “I like you being happy... I like -making- you happy, so...”

“Is that all...” he asked as if it was no small thing at all, “And what's in it for you?”

The way he kept looking at him, for one. He did not want to make it sound like just another act of service, that happened to be made of touches due to anything about Crowley, because that missed the point a little. Aziraphale did not quite have words. Crowley needed words. He brought his hand up, intending to kiss it to make his point. Crowley twisted gently as if to pull back and he stopped to let him immediately, too quickly, even, because it seemed like it had been mostly reflex. When Crowley's hand did not actually leave he guided it slowly to place a chaste kiss on his palm near his wrist.

He had not meant to try to pull back, and the fact that his hand was immediately released made it easy to halt that reaction. At least he stopped feeling so awkward about not wanting to take his hand back when two gentle finger tips settled on the back of his hand to gently push it forward. It would have been far better to realize what he was doing and let him kiss the back of his hand as intended. This was just as sweetly given, but much more sensitive.

Again Crowley suddenly dropped his head into the back of the couch beside him. The sound he made was not quite just the escape of breath either. Aziraphale's mouth twitched into the ghost of a smile that was too adoring to be amused.

“That.” he said, a quiet admission, nodding towards his dramatic seeming reaction, earning another slightly more subtle one.

Crowley glared accusingly at him, but there was no real bite to it. This was killing him.

“Now come here.” he said in a moment of boldness, cutting off whatever idle protest Crowley was about to work himself up to, guiding him gently against his side, ready to relent at a moment's notice.

Before the world did not end, and after he had come around to more openly acting like they were friends, Crowley had reacted dramatically to being given any of the kind words or affection he seemed to obviously crave, as if it was too affecting, too dangerous, too painful, too something. He remembered more than one occasion of being aggressively pinned over it, as if daring him to continue, as if Crowley thought he could really be threatening to him, as if he would take it seriously as anything other than what it was; Crowley being sensitive and trying to make a point. It seemed to only add to his aggravation when Aziraphale only watched him react, as if the angel was wearing it on his face how sad he thought it was that he would not accept the kind words, how sweet he thought the dramatic reaction looked on him. Maybe he hoped he missed him skimming his eyes over the endearing way he curled his lip trying for all the world to look vicious. Hopefully he missed the question that occasionally dusted across his mind, of what tenderness he could surprise him with that would get him to drop the pretense for once.

Now Crowley, on most occasions, and especially in public, made very quiet versions of these protests as if out of habit, even though there was never any heart behind it, if there was even breath to it anymore. Sometimes it seemed, on the edge of encouraging him to insist on kind words, and he wondered what reaction he could drag out of him now if he did, gently. Still, these little nips of showing agitation told him that something was still sensitive, maybe still too much so, and so he was careful about pressing. Crowley would openly accuse him of having barriers and walls given half an excuse, but seemed oblivious to his own. So he tested to see if he would be willingly guided to his side.

“Angel...” he almost whined in protest, but moved under his own power to comply.

Crowley was used to only being held when he was a snake at this point as was fighting the impulse to turn into one at the moment. This was Aziraphale holding him, and while his snake form was as much him as this, he could not help but feel like holding him in another form had added a helpful layer of abstraction to the whole thing, something to make Aziraphale more comfortable. This was him saying he wanted to hold him regardless of what form he was in, that he did not need to buy into an excuse to do it anymore.

Now, not really understanding why, he was the one almost in tears. He felt shaky and weak, unable to say anything or he would definitely start crying and not be able to explain himself. So he wrapped his arms tightly around him and buried his face into the cotton on the side of his chest. Aziraphale seemed surprised, but did not protest, instead turning them both a little so he could put his feet up and they could both relax.

He found himself, again, being the thing Crowley was clinging to in a moment of poorly defined emotion. That was happening more often lately. This time, at least, he could run his hand soothingly through his hair. Crowley seemed to like that. He could hug him to his chest firmly and he seemed to like that even more. He did not really know if Crowley needed any more sleep at this point, but the fact that he always fell into such comfort against him was very sweet. Emotional or not, it did not take him long to fall asleep when he was being held. There was no blanket out here, and he could feel on the backs of his arms that the air was chilling his skin, so he rolled him gently in his sleep enough to untuck one wing and settle it over him.

~*~

Crowley was still clearly dreaming. He was held securely against Aziraphale and the morning light only reached his eyes by illuminating through a layer of bright white feathers. He was in a pocket of warmth and surrounded in gentle light and feather soft touches. Warm hands and paper-dried fingertips smoothed over his arms, then his cheek and into his hair. Surely he would wake to find it was all an illusion afforded him by a crisp white down duvet.

“Are you waking up now?” the thumb on his cheek asked him.

“Can't.” he protested as if pained, “S'nice dream.” he said, breathing deeply against his chest and squeezing him slightly.

Affection and joy were pouring off of him. Aziraphale tried so very hard not to giggle. He seemed at peace and he did not want to disturb him.

Now all the warm softness was jiggling him slightly instead of the gentle rocking of steady breaths. He could hardly be disappointed to wake though, finding that nothing lovely about the dream was fading. Now he just had to contend with the amused peering at him under his wing, and the only response he could manage was blushing and trying to go back to ignoring he was awake. A gentle thumb on his cheekbone tried to tell him there was no judgment here. The hand cupping the side of his face and neck was kind and loving, holding him so securely he felt like he was exploding in slow motion.

“Is this how you'd rather be held?” his angel asked him.

Crowley's grip tightened and he rolled indulgently into his hands and chest. Then he shrugged much like he did when he asked him any other preference.

“You know, I'm not all that comfortable guessing at what you might like, so if you don't mind...”

Apparently he had a problem assuming he was correctly interpreting his body language too.

“Yes, alright, yes, please angel.” he sighed, giving in and then going silent again.

“So you'll admit you like being held? Will you ask me to, next time?” he asked a little more playfully, still all tenderness.

Suddenly the arm wrapped over his back shifted and Crowley dragged his fingers indulgently through the feathers at the base of his wing. He regretted doing it instantly, because the surprised jolt and flex of his wings knocked them both upright off the couch. Now Aziraphale was the one visibly flustered.

“That was- that wasn't very...” he searched for the right word, now sitting stiffly upright.

It was rude is what it was, and immature. Crowley seemed to be grinning all to much about turning it around on him. Even if he looked at where they were laying with obvious longing.

“Oh don't get your feathers all ruffled, they're bad enough as it is...”

Really being half open on the couch all night had not done the left one any favours either.

“Really...” Aziraphale scolded him, no longer in the comfortable position of making Crowley squirm in his skin.

It really was not fair to put it on Crowley that there were barriers up between them, lines and boundaries they had long established, even in spite of themselves, and maybe he was reminding him of that.

“Look at this...” Crowley critiqued whatever mess of feathers he was observing, trying to gesture to any particularly egregious part of it.

It was all bad. His hands danced slightly in the air as if trying to pick a spot to start. Aziraphale folded them away, almost apologetically, almost visibly pained by it. Crowley slumped back onto the couch sighing deeply.

“They're -sensitive-” he reiterated defensively.

Crowley just raised an eyebrow and let the expression wobble off into nothing with another face shrug. He would let it lay for now.

Aziraphale let out a long breath. It had actually felt very good, it was just far too much of a surprise. It was not even that he did not want him to, he was just very used to his own barriers.

“A little warning next time?” he offered him.

The eyebrow came back, but he nodded in subtle and immediate agreement.

He could hardly even pretend to stay annoyed, and did not want to, not now. He was used to seeing Crowley wrapped up in defences, emotional barriers and a fair amount of denim and leather, not in soft clothes, with sleep-tousled hair and blushing in a way that made his subtle freckles stand out. He looked too much like he should be tucked back in and brought breakfast.

“Why don't you wait here, and I'll make us something to eat.” he said, about to get up and head for the kitchen.

“No.” Crowley said too quickly, springing up, “Let's try a new cafe?” he suggested.

Aziraphale did not know what this was about, but indulged him with no more protest than a sad sigh. He did like trying new cafes.

Crowley got dressed in an awful hurry and met him back in the living room, encouraging him towards the door before ducking back to check on something.

“If you don't make presentable tomatoes for him soon, you -will- suffer the consequences.” he hissed into the kitchen.


	3. Love language

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley is broken.

Being able to lay against his angel was never necessary, it was never in the plan exactly, never something he particularly thought he should let himself hope for, or really think about wanting. Thinking about wanting things could get him into a lot of trouble, really. It -was- something that made him feel like his soul was overflowing his body though. The useless fluttering in his chest would not stop and he was still working on the issue of the gears, hard to do with them unable to catch on anything. Now the fact that Aziraphale spent the entire time watching him with such a loving expression became the background noise he slept to, like rain lulling him to sleep and soothing him when he was awake. He could not help the constant contented sighing any more than he could help the light blush that had become a permanent feature.

He could easily accuse heaven of being boring -whether or not he still had feelings about falling- even Aziraphale could, but if eternity was drifting on a cloud in his arms like this, he would take it. Those fingertips, massaging through his hair and dusting across his cheek, were every comfort in the world poured into one. Eventually he noticed the tiniest stitch in Aziraphale's brow.

“What is it, angel?” he mumbled.

“Oh, nothing dear, I-”

Really he had been thinking about the conversation they had that night in the park. He had not realized just how many conclusions he had come to on his own in their thousands of years together. Assumptions were silly. He probably should have just asked sooner. Now Crowley was raising his brow at him lazily.

“It just struck me as odd...”

That did not help the eyebrow. It was a sore subject though and he was not sure he wanted to bring it up now. Maybe it was too late.

“Well,” he said as he continued getting more intense attention the more he stayed silent, “You've always openly lamented that all you did was ask questions... I had always assumed that meant something more like...”

“Like what, angel?” he asked, his voice soft.

He was actually curious, he did not think Aziraphale had any harsh judgments for him, not really.

“Well, I had assumed it would be something like questioning why... Why humans needed to be tested, or to suffer, or why children...”

All that would have seemed consistent with everything he had taken issue with since. He remembered standing with him at the crucifixion. He had shown up because he had felt obligated to see what his side was doing. On its own it was enough to sow doubt in him, but then Crowley had been there, so full of love and pain, and he had learned he had been somewhat of a mentor to the child. It broke his heart to see him in that state. Crowley had tried to confess some attachment in such a casual tone, perhaps needing just one other being to understand something of it, but he could not really keep it out of his voice how much his heart was breaking, how much he was blaming himself. All he could see for a moment was a grieving mother, and not just because he had dressed like one. Really it stood to reason that Crowley had been sent to tempt him, had tried to show him the world, educated him and ended up having hand in raising him into the kind and loving being he had witnessed, not that he would accuse Crowley of such a thing as being a good role-model by accident. Between that and the incident with the arc, he should have guessed that he would have fallen a long time ago if heaven was still handing out that kind of punishment for doubts, even if he never acted on them.

Even the fact, that he had impulsively tried to tell him that it was part of the ineffable plan, sat like lead on his tongue the moment he thought about what he was saying.

“Oh it was. It was those things too...” he conceded, but there had been so much more to it.

Having a crisis of faith surrounded by a hundred different yelled opinions on hundreds of things tended to come with a lot of questions, and a lot of doubts. It was also before most -if not all- of humanity had even really entered the equation.

“It's just, forgive me, but silence doesn't sound much like you.”

Crowley wanted to glare at him but could not help smirking instead. Of course his angel knew him better than that. He sighed.

“I guess, I've always doubted that the real reason -could- have been asking those questions. I mean, imagine... Imagine you're God, even if that's futile, or blasphemy or what have you, just... You've created humans and all the animals and commanded us to love them, and then, for whatever -ineffable- reasons... Well, you give them natures, instincts, make them have to prey on each other for survival, make them compelled to sometimes harm each other, for all sorts of sordid reasons. You make man, but he's... Well he's lonely so you make him a companion, but he doesn't like her, so you just... Poof.”

He mimed dust blowing away.

“Like somehow she only exists for his sake... And so you try again, to make a companion he'll -approve- of. And you make her from a part of him so they are enough alike, but you give humans those instincts too, the ones to fight and hunt, hurt and kill and... And the animals still, they're barely self-aware some of them, but enough, enough to suffer, and you build a world that's killing and hurting them, pit them against each other, even when they're innocent and new and just small... And then we, some of us, just ask why... Why are these beings created to suffer and to not even understand why? Why are we to love them when they're -made- to be terrible in a way? ... And to watch them suffer?” More hand gesturing.

Aziraphale would question it the same way if he let himself.

All of that had been even before the fall of man, before the arc, before the crucifixion. And that was not all. Some questioned that, others questioned why they should be tasked to love such lowly creatures that did not seem like much at all. Others still, wanted to be able to walk the earth like it was made for them and not these new beings. Many were jealous.

“I stand by it. Maybe I'm just a demon and that's my problem and all... but I don't think it -should- have been punished like that, not just asking questions...”

“Crowley...” Aziraphale implored him, not without affection.

He wanted to understand but old habits were hard to break and what he was saying probably did amount to an offence to God.

“I guess I've always just had a hard time of it, not wanting to believe that God could really be that cruel.”

God was his creator, as much as anyone's. The evidence had stacked up, but he could not help but hope, but -look- for there being something else at play, even while he practically demanded that other people start questioning it all too. He -wanted- to believe in the ineffable plan, but there were so many things he could not help but reject being a part of it. The apocalypse and the war included.

Something was starting to click for Aziraphale.

“...You don't feel guilty about those questions.” he concluded.

Crowley, deep down, did not feel guilty about asking questions out of kindness or love, -he- did not think those things should have been punished, even being told it was wrong he still could not accept that, so he had done his work rationalizing other reasons why he deserved what he got. What he felt guilty about was the silence that came before them, the doubts that kept him quiet, the idea that if he had asked more of his questions to his friends sooner that he might have saved some of them. He could never know, only speculate.

“Should I?” Crowley tested him.

Aziraphale shook his head and sighed.

“No... I don't think so anyway, if I'm quite honest.” He went back to stroking his hair lovingly, “I don't think you really deserved to be punished at all.”

They had been over that though. If Crowley was not punished he never would have become himself, not exactly. He was right, he had not changed all that much, but it was Aziraphale's thinking that this was because he never needed to. Crowley, in many ways, had it right from the beginning.

“I'm beginning to suspect that it was part of the plan...” though he did not want to accuse God of giving one of her children a deeply damaging psychological complex on purpose, “For you to fall, to put you in my path, all the good you've done since...”

He watched him turn, as if his words were too bright.

“All the good -I've- done since because of you.” he added, at him.

“Angel...” Crowley whined.

If it was God's aim to create a being who would stand up for her creation themselves, on the ground, in person, to guide and to teach, and to practically parent them, be present with them, to make sure they had a choice and could chose wisely, She had accomplished that in Crowley. Sometimes Aziraphale even questioned if he was not made to love Crowley, instead of Crowley having been made to temper him; and love him he would.

“Let's not pretend I ever would have had it in me to save the world if it wasn't for you.” he cooed fondly.

“Angel, please.” he huffed, now making a desperate hand gesture, blushing hotly.

“Well it's not like it can get you in any more trouble than we're already in.”

Crowley was not used to being held and told how wonderful he was and it was torture. It was good, but terrible and sensitive and it was driving him to something. Aziraphale knew he no longer had any excuse to reject these kindnesses, and was just enough of a bastard to use it against him.

Crowley lifted off his chest just enough to give him a stern look that was a pitiful mockery of the last time he had pinned him to a wall. Aziraphale could not help but look him over with the same fondness. His hair was a mess and still between his fingers. He kissed his forehead gently and Crowley collapsed face first into his chest as if shot. He had never seem him so red. Usually when he got this embarrassed he just turned into a snake, or left. Now he could see the blushing on the back of his neck. He groaned lightly against his chest as if terribly pained.

“ 'Killing me, angel.” he muttered.

Aziraphale felt like he was drowning in the love pouring off of him, so he was not sure which of them should really be accused of excessive force, but he rolled his eyes and abided by the fond smile that had been plastered to his own face for the past week.

If Crowley had not learned his lesson, about letting himself think about what he might -like- to be the case, long ago, he might have spent more time thinking about what it might actually be like to have such a being of love openly and unabashedly directing that attention towards him. He had not. Maybe in tiny moments of weakness such an idea brushed his consciousness from time to time, instantly stunning him and being quickly shoved aside for self-preservation, but nothing could have prepared him for this.

“Oh shush now.” Aziraphale tutted, stroking his neck soothingly again.

“Unless this is -really- harming you in some way, dear?” he asked, pausing just a little.

The sound Crowley's throat made without his permission was pitiful incarnate. Hopefully they could both ignore that.

“No, angel.” he breathed softly, very certain that any force behind the words would break something.

He did not know whether he feared combusting on the spot, a heart attack, or maybe just uncontrollable emotional responses, but in any case, he lay very still and quiet.

“And you enjoy this?” he asked, massaging his neck slightly.

Again, Crowley rolled into it, not so quietly.

“-yess.” came a barely audible hiss.

“Well then, I suppose you'll get used to it.”

Crowley did not want to think he just swallowed apprehensively, or that Aziraphale could have caught it. The impulse to remind him of his own fears of them being fundamentally incompatible were like a needle on the tip of his tongue. He resisted that. If it had been proven he could be held and it harmed neither of them, then getting used to it sounded wonderful, if impossible. All these lines and barriers were regrettable sure, but had recently been necessary. They had become safe and comfortable, keeping them at an emotional distance that kept everything is measured doses. Now his own skin felt like it was burning him, even in the January chill, but there did not seem to be any real damage. It was like going from a desert to the middle of the ocean.

“Unless you want me to stop?” he asked, pretty certain he knew the answer.

Crowley lifted till their noses almost met again just to glare daggers at him. Having to look him directly in the eye while he stroked his cheek was evidently too much still. Heat not unlike a fever bled through his shirt from where he lay back down.

“You poor thing.” he oozed affectionately.

He probably should have been able to predict this. He should have been able to read the potential of him being so sensitive to affection and kindness. It should have been obvious just how much rejecting it, playing at aloof distance, even trying to appear threatening, was a flimsy defence, one press away from crumbling. He was not surprised by the nature of his reactions exactly, so much as the sheer depth of them. He seemed pained by it, even if his voice kept suggesting and confirming that he was enjoying it.

“You don't even know what to do with yourself.” he observed softly.

It was sad, really, but hard to focus on all the time gone by when instead his mind was doing somewhat methodical work thinking of all the time ahead. Crowley buried his face deeper in his arms, somehow.

~*~

Winter had become an extended excuse for cuddling and hot chocolate in a cozy and dimly lit back room of a book shop. It was all tartan patterned softness and warmth. Sometimes there were tiny marshmallows.

Occasionally he had to return home long enough to water his plants, bathe, even engage in some catharsis on canvas, and check on the tomatoes. At this time Aziraphale would open the shop and customers would come in.

Lately he had taken to distracting them with a hot chocolate, but telling them they had to stay at the table with it and not take it near the books. This proved surprisingly effective to dodge sales. He did not even have to be rude. For the most part he could play the part of doting father or grandfather figure and then send people on their way when they felt like they had been there too long. Of course it did not hurt that he hardly thought charging them for the hot coco was appropriate. It was so cold out.

Elaborate pots of succulents and cacti with pretty flowers had started turning up in odd corners, on the counter and on the table with increasing frequency, and the little dining area had somehow amassed a collection of increasingly elaborate gourmet teas. Aziraphale was sure it was not any customer, but he never actually caught Crowley at it.

There was one customer who would come in and sigh longingly at the books, barely touched them, and occasionally expressed concern over the musty smell, who made -helpful- suggestions about the humidity level for the sake of preserving them. When asked why they came to a book store to not buy anything they eventually made some comment about a lack of stability of their own to make sure books like this stayed well kept. They wore strange clothes and on the off occasion they stopped by, the sight of them in the window seemed to drive other customers off. When asked they confirmed they had nothing to do with these strange appearances, but that they had seen a tall man in dark clothes who's limbs were an odd balance of gracefully out of control, taking these things out of bags sometimes, not that he really needed his suspicions confirmed. They spoke in a tone that suggested there was a whole level of conversation and understanding -about who exactly that man was to him- going on, and an almost amused curl to their smile. Aziraphale was not going to correct them, especially considering he was not sure they were wrong.

Aziraphale was fond of succulents, they stayed a manageable size and seemed to actually prefer how often he forgot to water them. Crowley was at least more straightforward about some of his gifts, like the gourmet pastries he kept stocking the tiny fridge with, and the bottles of wine, and other consumables. Still, he made sure to comment on how lovely each of the new plants were, both to Crowley and to the plants themselves when he was not looking.

Just ever so once in a while a new book would show up in his collection, something he had trouble getting a hold of, or that everyone assumed a lost cause. He was intent on spoiling Crowley with affection, thinking he had already more than reciprocated far in advance, but the poor dear did not seem to know how to accept all of this without dialling his own gestures up past record highs. There really was not anything to save him from at the moment, no grand gestures to be made, so he seemed to find every slightly smaller thing he could do.

“Oh Crowley, you don't have to keep doing this.” he said, almost a lament.

It was enough to make him feel guilty if he let it.

“What?” he asked, all vague impressions of innocent blinking, though he did not really do that.

Aziraphale sighed deeply. Crowley had been standing in the doorway very quietly for a solid ten minutes, always taking time to lurk, enough to watch him enjoy the things he left him, before making his presence known, always a beacon of love and affection that Aziraphale could hardly overlook. He tried not to make anything of him just watching him gently turn pages, expression embodying what a longing sigh would look like.

“I thought you liked books?” he teased.

“Oh I -love- books.” he said all matter of fact, “They're so charming,” he went on, expression gaining a sly edge, “The very embodiment of offering knowledge, kindly providing it to anyone who's inclined to inform themselves.” he spoke affectionately to the book, gently and slowly stroking the edge of a page to turn it, “So full of memories and stories... And after all, what do things like free will and consent even mean in the absence of information?” he said fondly, “Lovely things books are, empowering people to shape and choose and live better, to do better...”

A subtle glance to the side let him know Crowley had caught his meaning. There was no other explanation for the way he had melted against the door frame, blushing and failing to glare at him.

“Angel...” he whined under his breath.

“But that's rather beside the point, Crowley dear.” he said, closing the book.

He looked up and Crowley pretended he was leaning casually.

“Come here.” he said, turning in his chair and reaching out for his hand.

Crowley slowly obliged and he took both of his hands to hold them.

“My dearest Crowley...” he looked up at him, “You already do so much for me.” he brushed his hands tenderly with his thumbs, “You always have.” he gave them a light squeeze and watched him shift a little awkwardly, “I'm afraid I haven't allowed myself to express myself nearly enough in kind, but I -am- trying to make that up to you, if at all possible.” he explained, “And that's going to be very hard to do if you carry on this way.” he kissed the back of his hands each in turn.

He stood up, still holding his hands. Crowley looked like he wanted to fold into him for a moment. Their noses almost brushed before he reeled himself back in.

Crowley did not know what he was doing or thinking, but Aziraphale sighed fondly and held him gently to kiss his forehead, so it must not have been anything offensive.  
  


He would make it up to him, especially once he had finished processing what exactly -everything he had been holding back- entailed. Crowley had been the most attentive and sweet friend and companion he could have asked for, for literal millennia. He led him by the hand to the back room that was quickly becoming a complete living area to sit down. Burying his nose into his hair was a lot easier once Crowley let himself collapse into his chest.

“And besides, you don't owe me anything regardless, not for trying to show you how much I love you.”

Again Crowley's nose brushed his as he grabbed him, until a moment of hesitation later when the sound that started in his throat collapsed into a hiss and Crowley was a great black and red boa, twisting belly up as if playing dead.

“Dear boy, you don't think that's a touch dramatic?” he asked, failing to keep all of the concern out of his voice.

Crowley turned back over to stare at him squarely for a moment, if only to let him know he was okay. He still was not used to hearing those words out loud, and the last time he had said anything of the like, he did not know Crowley was listening.

“Oh.” Aziraphale caught what he had just really said, glancing off the the side, processing how he would expect Crowley to react to easily confessed affection like that, “Well, I do, you -must- know that.” he said more quietly.

More than knowing that he loved every one of God's creatures, he had to know, he thought, with a tiny sting of doubt and guilt. Crowley pressed down against his chest as if gently seeking some way to crawl right into his skin, perhaps to hide.

“I'm sorry for all the times I never said it.” he said, stroking the scales on his head smoothly.

There was such pain and affection in his voice, Crowley twisted slightly against him. It was as if his mind was returning those words over and over silently, relentlessly, as he tried to find some way to let it all out. It was still all too fresh, new and sudden, Crowley would need time to adjust before the words came as easily to him. The meaning though, that was rolling off of him desperately in waves.

“I know, I know... Shush.” he comforted him quietly.

He had not realized just how much Crowley needed to hear those words. Maybe Crowley had not either.

~*~

Aziraphale set about putting out pastries and boiling water, Crowley was conspicuously absent at the moment. He was beginning to wonder if he should actually start looking for him, it not being like him to just vanish before they ate breakfast. It was nice, having a routine they had settled into, but that made breaks to their routine concerning. Before he could worry too much though, Crowley came back through the door, cheeks red from the cold, holding a bag. Without even thinking he met him half way and cupped his cold face in his hands, trying to warm him. Crowley almost dropped the bag.

His hands were hot, and his concern and affection was like a sudden jolt. He was not sure what he expected when he rushed up to him at the door and held his face, but this was nice, even if it burned on his cheeks and ears.

“Crowley dear, what could possibly have been so important to go rushing out in weather like that?”

“Tomatoes.” Crowley said, his voice fighting not to be small.

Every morning they got up and went immediately to eat. He did not tend his plants until afternoon and he kept thinking they would be better to bring over fresh in the morning. He had not wanted to present the plant to him until he was sure the tomatoes were decent, because he knew Aziraphale would never reject a gift from him, even if it was a little bastard of a plant that could not even get tomatoes right. So he thought running out to get tomatoes to go with breakfast was as good a cover as any.

“For breakfast.” he tried to add like it was obviously a perfectly rational explanation.

It was not exactly in the plan that it would immediately turn into a blizzard the moment he stepped out.

Crowley put down the two most perfect and red looking tomatoes he had ever seen.

“The weather didn't turn until after I got halfway there.” he grumbled.

Within a moment Aziraphale was fussing over him and setting a hot coffee down in front of him.

“It was very thoughtful.” he eventually conceded, “Thank you dear.”

He kissed his forehead again, and again his heart did a pathetic little leaping motion that he wished would stop. This was his eternity now, being overwhelmed and useless, a complete disaster with nothing to focus on except how everything was always just too much, his own personal heaven, where every touch and word left him raw, either reward or some twisted punishment he was enjoying -so very much- anyway, no one could really say any more.

“You had better have been worth it...” he grumbled to a tomato before eating it.

It was not bad. Seemed like a decent tomato. Then he noticed an odd little quirk to Aziraphale's brow.

“What is it, angel?”

He made a hesitant little sound, obviously not really wanting to voice what he was thinking. Crowley peered over his glasses at him until he relented.

“Well, it's just... It's odd really,” he said, brows allowing themselves to fully come together, “I can't help the sense that these tomatoes...”

He did not want to complain about them, he must have been imagining things anyway. Crowley was waiting for him to finish.

“Well, I can't shake the sense that -somehow- they taste a little like...”

“Like?”

“Like, well... Fear.” he sighed, rolling his eyes.

It was ridiculous of course.

Aziraphale was right, now that he said it. Fear was something he had such an easy sense of, he was not sure how he missed it.

“Though I'm certain it's just my imagination.” he added when Crowley suddenly sighed and leaned back, covering his hand on the table.

“No... No you're right... It was a silly idea.” Crowley said looking dejected.

That was when it clicked. Crowley had grown these himself.

“Oh Crowley... You didn't.” he said with affection and concern.

Crowley just glared off to the side at the plant in his mind.

“You didn't terrify some poor plant into making these in the middle of winter just for me... Did you?” somehow his tone was just slightly too distressed to completely convey he thought it was very sweet to go to the trouble.

Of course he had. He was not aware that Aziraphale knew what he meant when he alluded to talking to his plants. Maybe he only knew he handled some plants this way.

“My dearest Crowley, you...” he sighed, “That's very thoughtful of you...”

Crowley looked like he was slowly plotting a tiny but elaborate murder.

“Dearest, listen to me. You can't just expect the poor thing to make proper fruit under these conditions, I'm sure it tried very hard.”

He only got a coldly raised eyebrow in response, his attention still focused on the plant.

“Please don't...” he was not sure what logic there was to ask this, “Don't punish the poor thing on my account.” he requested, perhaps unwisely.

Crowley was even more certain now that the reason Aziraphale had claimed the job of the gardener was because he -was- aware of how he managed his plants and was trying to spare as many as he could from his ire. Something in him wanted to collapse. He felt like he was being dramatic, his reaction out of proportion with the situation, but he was trying to do something thoughtful, something more personal than just getting him any gift, something that came from himself in some way, and somehow he had managed to taint that. Fear was the only way he knew to manage plants and that just was nowhere near good enough to feed to his angel. He knew he was failing to keep the disappointment off his face when Aziraphale squeezed his hand. Just occasionally he was slightly less delighted by how well his angel knew him.

Crowley had that telltale slump to all his features that always betrayed his worst moods, the ones where self-doubt were at the forefront. It broke his heart, he did not mean any of it to be taken this way, as much as Crowley was trying to hide whatever state he was suddenly in. He was so much more transparent than he knew.

“Oh, no, no it was -very- sweet of you... And they are very lovely tomatoes.”, that much was honest, they were visually appealing, “I'm sure the entire plant has done its very best to be as absolutely charming as possible.”

He was not sure charming was what really counted from a tomato plant, and the sudden doting attention was almost embarrassing.

“You'll let me see it now, won't you?”

Of course that was what Crowley was up to in his kitchen. It all made sense now.

Crowley wanted to immediately reject the notion that the plant deserved anything but to be kicked out, but he brought the plants that would not be persuaded by fear -here- so he did not know what he could do with it. Then, suddenly, it actually seemed the perfect idea. The plant -should- know exactly who it had disappointed. That would teach it.

It was not all bad though, somehow this all seemed to precipitate a long after-breakfast cuddle while Aziraphale read on the couch. That was lovely, that was whole new precedent of not needing any excuse to curl up against his chest while he read, it being the middle of the day and a lot like just going back to bed because they could. He could hardly mind the book being held over his back, not when Aziraphale's nose perpetually found its way into his hair.

~*~

Sometimes he felt the whole book slump against his back, but when he moved even the slightest bit to see if Aziraphale had fallen asleep, he was instantly nuzzled against and sometimes kissed at his hairline, as if he was not sleeping but had become distracted with him instead, as if he was soothing him back to sleep, thinking the settling of the book had disturbed him. His insides writhed happily every time he glanced up only to meet attentive eyes.

Aziraphale was usually positive in general, with a few stark exceptions, but now he was outright cheery at all times. Crowley could have eyed a book or two jealously in the past, but now watching him leaf gently through the pages only reminded him what he needed a brief reprieve from before it just got to be too much again. He had never felt like he had such a weak heart until now.

“Mmmm.” Aziraphale mumbled into his hair, “This feels right.” he mused, putting the book down to rub his back deliberately.

He got to the backs his arms and his hands felt hot, and wonderful. Immediately he reached up and tucked them in with the heated blanket, rubbing his arms to warm him.

“Crowley dear, you really do get cold so easily.” he commented in response to all the contented humming.

Crowley hugged him a bit tighter and wiggled into him, a display of how comfortable he was.

“Well if I didn't...” he suggested lazily, leaving the rest implied.

“Yes, you're quite right.” he mumbled into his hair, kissing his forehead tenderly.

~*~

Crowley watched Aziraphale take off his jacket and shoes at the door, something he did not even do getting back to his shop in the evenings, something usually reserved for settling down to read for the night, and which looked a lot like a man coming home for the day. It was as if he was anticipating exactly what the evening was intended to entail; food, easy comfort, and falling asleep together.

Crowley ducked into the kitchen to make sure everything was ready, certain his stomach would be tying itself in these useless knots all evening.

“You had better be on your best behaviour.” he hissed, not entirely inaudibly to the tomato plant.

Aziraphale picked that moment to slowly round the corner behind him, peering experimentally into the room. The plant's leaves did their best to stop shaking and perk up.

“Oh what a lovely thing.” he said immediately, sliding over to them, trapping Crowley against the counter.

Realistically speaking, Crowley could move at any time, but he hardly felt like that was the case.

“So charming. You've been doing your very best haven't you?” he went on.

Normally Crowley would not stand for this, but it was all part of the plan.

“Oh but this soil is very dry though, I'm sure he wouldn't mind if I got you some water.” he suggested.

Now Aziraphale's hand absently rested on his back as he reached past him to find a cup. This made it a little easier to hide his annoyance, to stare less pointedly at the plant. He watched him pour a cup of lukewarm water generously over the soil. Perfect.

He had been getting steadily better at caring for all the plants that were slowly filling his shop, and he did not have Crowley's green thumb. Mostly he had learned that each plant had a very particular amount of water and sun it liked to get.

“Such green leaves and what a robust stem.”, he said, stroking one leaf gently, “I'm sure that you could make wonderful tomatoes, given the chance.”

Crowley shook his head. Smirking covertly to himself.

“I wouldn't be too sure about that, it's a little bastard of a plant... Tries to wilt every morning and every evening. Can't even make a worthwhile tomato.”

Aziraphale looked offended, drawn into the idea that the plant could understand them. He had never heard Crowley be this mean before. Not in private, not when no one was looking and the had the option to be kinder.

“I'm quite sure it's a very good plant, and that it only needs some time and warmth and a bit of water, and it could do a very good job of things.” he said affectionately to the leaves.

“We'll see about that, won't we?” he directed more towards the plant, glaring downwards.

He could see the leaves perking up with genuine ease as they spoke, and was almost glad to see them wilt just slightly under his gaze. He indicated the dinner table, and Aziraphale went to take his seat.

“That's the man you disappointed.” he hissed under his breath as he left.

He walked over to join him, leaving the plant with a clear view of his angel for the dinner. If Aziraphale had overheard what he had said, he did not make anything of it. This was truly genius, if he had the audacity to claim so, which he did. The more he made Aziraphale laugh and smile, the more he enjoyed his meal, the better.

Now, you do not go six thousand years as two relatively clever people without figuring a few things out, or -at least- narrowly not figuring some things out. There were things they both had a great deal of suspicion about, and their own beliefs -and the resulting reaction reality tended to have in response to them- was certainly one of those thing. They also knew -by some unconscious mechanism- that it would be dangerous to let these suspicions to the surface. After all, what is left of the reality you know and love when you become fully aware the world would bend to anything you believe enough to be true? Where does the line of belief and reality get drawn when you become too aware of your ability to control one and your complete inability to control the first? If those questions just made your mind uncomfortable, you can imagine. That was a dangerous mental trap which selective cleverness saved them from falling into, perhaps by design. Thus we have two immortal beings, each with thousands of years of practice trying to let themselves believe what was the most convenient, with equal practice at never letting themselves examine this compulsion too closely. In fact, they had become very practised in general at conveniently overlooking the obvious, even when it was no longer convenient.

So when Crowley started making assertions about what was still in his fridge and in perfectly preserved condition from the first night they had it, Aziraphale told himself quietly that Crowley's refrigerator must just be more advanced than his own, rather than trying to dissuade him from his notions about refrigeration. After all, who was he to assume Crowley was the one who had it wrong, Crowley was always better with technology anyway. Their dinner was thus, absolutely perfect.

Crowley was trying to hit every note he could, if for no other reason -that he could admit- than to show off how wonderful and full of love his angel was. He even gave him a guided tour of all his plants and bit his tongue long enough to let Aziraphae praise them. Being the suave host was becoming increasingly difficult tough, as Aziraphale continuously betrayed himself in every moment. His comfort with everything, as unprecedented as it was, was evident in every particularity of his behaviour. He knew exactly what was expected of him and was eagerly playing along. Crowley had seen him manage to eat any dish without spilling a drop, so it was plenty normal to see him go an entire evening without loosening a stitch of clothing -best not to risk wrinkling them- so when he waited until after dinner and desert, until they were situated with the last of the wine and comfortable, to unbutton his sleeves and roll them out of the way, it was very hard to interpret it as anything other than the offer it was.

Demons don't swoon, of course, that would be very un-demonic of them. They might, however, be persuaded by events to fall easily into the arms of whoever they want, the moment they felt like being there. Thoughts were useless anyway, who would bother having such irritating things. Fond smiles and hands in your hair are a much better use of time after all, especially if your forehead is kissed.

“What a lovely evening.” his angel said to him, “So very thoughtful...” he went on and oh, they were getting back to praise now.

Crowley could not help but twist and squirm subtly into all of this.

“How is that?” Aziraphale asked, nuzzling into his hair.

“How's what?” he breathed.

“How is it that you manage to act like no one -ever- holds you like this?”

Crowley did not realize they were having a conversation, or that it was one that could be lost, but -from the moment his lip moved and he had no ready answer- he got a very strong sense of both. Crowley promptly decided that they were not, in fact, having this conversation. There was no way he was explaining any of this to himself or anyone else.

“Well -I- don't go around fraternizing with humans.” he managed to choke out.

He did not really want to be confrontational or for that to come off as a judgement, he stated it because it had long been the truth. He also did not want to have to justify that no amount of physical contact held any interest for him if there was not this kind of connection behind it, or this amount of love, and he did not think he should have to admit to himself -or anyone else at this moment- that Aziraphale was the only person he had ever had any such connection with. It seemed like obvious things should not cruelly insist on being stated. Thankfully, Aziraphale seemed to take it for the defence it was.

“No, no I suppose you really don't. It's -almost- a shame, really...” he said, stroking his cheek very gently, “I imagine they'd find you very easy to love.”

He almost felt bad, watching Crowley's skin turn from hot under his hand to as red as his ruby belly scales. Crowley went from trying to get leverage for a good stare at him, to hiding against his chest. It was far too easy to overwhelm him with affection and far too fun to do. Usually he took a change in form as an indication he had pushed something too far, but now he wondered if maybe this had been a bit too much, despite the very human-like quality of the red cheek under his palm.

Aziraphale had clearly been right. Their natures were incompatible and this was slowly killing him, corrupting him on a fundamental level maybe. There was only so much of this Crowley could take at any given time. It was not just all the love and sweetness -the unabashed implications he made and all the clever ways he found to suggest that he loved him- it was everything that it contrasted so sharply against sometimes too. He was having it spelled out to him, with every kind gesture, every soft touch, every loving word, just how badly he had needed this and just how much he had gone without it.

“Oh surely you can't deny that?” Aziraphale asked in response to all the pained head shaking.

“Angel, please...”

“Crowley, you can't possibly think...”

“Aziraphale!” Crowley snapped, instantly regretting it.

“...I suppose I just can't imagine someone knowing you and not loving you.” he said quietly after a moment.

Of course he would see it that way. Of course he would assume that the problem was that Crowley was loved and just lacked a sense of it. Of course in his mind anyone would meet Crowley and love him, because that was what Aziraphale felt, because Aziraphale was overlooking that humans were -overwhelmingly- not like him, especially the humans put into the path of a demon. Of course he was not thinking of the implications of temptation and sin when he thought of Crowley having to approach humans that way. That was what made this all so sharp. Aziraphale still had his chosen delusions about what it was to be a demon, and he did not really want to correct him. It would break his heart.

“Angel, there is -nothing- to do with love in what humans want with me.” he said quietly, to explain his outburst.

He did not really want to explain more than that. The hurt he saw on his face was already enough.

“Please, just drop it.” he pleaded.

Aziraphale nodded immediately. Of course love was a sore subject for him, of course physical affection could be complicated. He did not want to imagine. He could tell Crowley did not want him to. He was not sure how affectionate words had spun themselves so readily into a barb.

“I'm sorry.” he said very softly.

Crowley was already wrapped back around him trying to cover whatever other feelings had come up with an angry pout. If he was not entirely imagining it, he might have been shaking a little.

“I won't... I won't speculate about how anyone else feels or should feel.” he promised him, realizing now how that could be cruel.

“But can I keep telling you how I feel?” he asked, tipping his chin up.

That was more the reaction he was looking for. Hot and red, but relaxed, pliant, soft huffs of breath and gripping to him, not deflection or intimidation. Still, he seemed like he was running a fever and did not actually come up with a response.

“Too much?” he asked him gently, before the whine in Crowley's throat could form into a proper protest.

~*~

He decided it was probably incidental to Aziraphale's living arrangements actually including a public shop, and his own place being a personal dwelling, that they never used to visit at his place very much, if ever. Now though, it was slowly becoming normal and comfortable to be including him in this space.

Crowley was increasingly comfortable at least. Aziraphale was slowly processing a new level of insight he suddenly had into his companion's inner workings. It was easy enough to set aside, in the moment, when he was holding Crowley and he seemed content, even happy, at peace -he might hazard to say- curled up on him. The entire new set of reactions and behaviours he got just holding him and playing with his hair was endlessly fascinating. Crowley was, to his relief, as Crowley had ever been, right up until the very moment he thought it was time to be held, when suddenly he was some softer version of himself capable of soaking up love and attention, without harm, despite what his writhing might suggest.

When he was left to think about it, that was another story. He did not miss all the hissing under his breath at the plants, his threats, or -seemingly a new tactic- his promises to reward them with the angel's presence, threats to send him away. It was downright uncharacteristic to see him being so cruel to anything. At first it seemed obvious and simple projection, play the cruel and uncaring god to the helpless plants, punish their failure, harshly and swiftly, not seeming beholden to any mercy or logic, much like how Crowley saw divine punishment; how he saw -his- punishment. He told himself they were just plants, that even if Crowley thought they were afraid, they were healthy and well cared for, in some sense. It nagged at him though. His mind kept chipping away at it.

He felt, in many ways, like he was left playing Crowley's role, questioning the whole system, breaking the rules, sneaking them water here and there, just because it happened to be in his cup and he was done with it anyway, but also whispering sweet encouragement to them, telling them what he thought they needed to hear.

It did not sit entirely well with him to begin with that he seemed to be punishing the plants the same way he had been punished. It sat even less well when he realized why this new tone of threat bothered him so much. The projection was not impersonal, it was not treating -others- as he had been treated, it was re-enacting the harm done to himself to things that were an extension of himself. Now the greatest threat being used was not death or banishment, it was that they would never see Aziraphale again, that his kindness would be taken from them. They were told they had to be good enough to deserve him and were failing.

Other than the excuse of having not visited his home much, he could not understand how he had missed all of this. He knew that being a bit aloof and oblivious was one of his worst traits. Now every time he heard him shame them, all he could hear was him punishing himself for not being enough. Especially that poor tomato plant. He had to say something, he could not bear it if the next tomato he tried tasted like this deep well of shame, the fear of rejection made palpable by the last one was enough. He did not know how to bring it up though. Crowley would hardly be conscious of this very complex form of psychological self-harm, and he could not very well discuss it with him without opening that wound. It explained something of the long, nearly embarrassed, looks he got when he was caught holding a leaf gently and telling them how lovely and wonderful they were, but he could hardly let this go on.

“What is -THAT-?” he heard Crowley from the other room.

“Oh dear.” he mouthed to himself, relatively certain he had found a dead leaf.

“You were all warned!” he made a show of lifting the pot and showing it around to the other plants.

Aziraphale was already rushing over to him.

“Crowley, Crowley please.”

“No angel, they need to know who has authority here and I THINK THEY'VE FORGOTTEN.”

Aziraphale watched all the plants shake in fear.

“Oh no, no no no...”

He wanted to stop him, hush him, soothe him, interrupt this episode, but Crowley fixed him with a stern look, not having any part of it.

“You KNOW what happens to him now.” he called to the room at large.

Crowley tucked the pot under his arm and sauntered over to the hall that lead to the elevator, Aziraphale hot on his heels.

“Crowley you can't.” he pleaded, “Crowley the poor thing hasn't done anything wrong. Leaves get old and used up -I suspect anyway- hey have to grow new ones..."

“You suspect?” he tested derisively, getting off the elevator and sauntering strictly out to his car.

He tossed the plant in the back seat and got in. Now Aziraphale was torn between alarm, and wanting to know what he actually did with them. He was driven on a short tour of the shops down town until Crowley seemed to settle on the right pot, still trying to make his case without either accusing him of cruelty, or quite making it sound like the obvious projection it was.

“If you're going to -dispose- of it, why are we picking out a pot?”

Crowley did not answer him. They went to his car.

“You like the pot?”

“Well, yes, I told you, it's perfectly charming as far as pots go...”

At this rate, he was a little concerned it was going to be the burial clothes at a funeral, and he felt bad for having helped in picking it out.

“But Crowley...”

Another glare stayed his tongue. It was marked all over his face that he would not be told how to manage his plants.

“Get in.” he demanded, opening his door.

They drove to his shop. Aziraphale watched in mild confusion as he slid the plant, carefully enough, out of one pot and settled it into the other, dumping any excess soil back on top. He righted himself and waltzed past him into his shop, ignoring that the door aught to have been locked. He stopped somewhere near the middle of the room and turned to him, suddenly not making eye contact.

“Where do you want this one?”

Just like that it all clicked. That was why their plants could never meet, because then his plants would know. They would know that Crowley did not actually have it in himself to dispose of them, or harm them, that he would do the only thing he could think of and bring them here. Surely, that was not at all conscious either, bringing these rejected part of himself to be judged and either neglected or cared for at Aziraphale's discretion. He thought, maybe, deep down, it even betrayed his most consuming and unconscious desire, to be accepted and loved by him. It was breaking his heart and he could hardly even articulate it.

“Unless you don't want it...”

“No! No I do. It's lovely.” he said too dramatically, rushing over to take it from a pointedly haphazard grip.

Crowley was not sure what in the situation warranted all this drama, or why Azirwpahle's lip shook just slightly. He watched him hold the plant protectively and take it into his back office. He situated it near a lamp and immediately gave it water. Something near his heart squirmed.

“There now. No need to be afraid, you can keep me company while I read.” he cooed at the plant.

Crowley watched him gently remove the dead leaf, and tenderly kiss one of the ones on top, and did not know why his heart made a little flipping motion.

“There. Good as new.” he said fondly.

He could not really criticise how he kept plants because the more he brought new ones here, the more he seemed to teach himself about caring for them. Their methods were different, but he could not deny how the plants here flourished. Aziraphale turned to him, still giving him a stern look, but also still seemingly on the verge of tears.

“You think I'm cruel to them.” Crowley said stepping forward, “You shouldn't be surprised.” he said, raising one brow.

He seemed to be trying to back him against the desk. Aziraphale assumed he was trying to intimidate him away from whatever he was about to say to him, and he made it very clear he was not impressed.

“Admit it, you just can't stand to see me be cruel to them. You don't like seeing what I'm actually capable of, not even, even...”

Not even to his stupid plants.

Aziraphale wanted to brush off the intimidation as ridiculous, maybe even take up a sturdier tone and push back, but he could hardly fake coldness with him now.

“What I can't stand is to watch you be so cruel to _yourself_.” he defended agitatedly, finally relenting.

“Whu...?” Both eyebrows raised quite high, sunglasses slipping down.

“Oh Crowley, you dear, sweet -stupid- ...”

Crowley wanted to protest -whatever this was- but Aziraphale was suddenly holding him, and was very intentionally tugging him down to make a particular point of kissing the snake on his cheekbone. When all he could do was lose his balance slightly in response, he was kissed there a few more times, almost frantically. The fluttering in his chest must have been made of all his confusion. He was pushed easily off balance into the chair at the desk so he could be held comfortably, forced to look up at him.

He could see Crowley trying to formulate a response and really only settling on random letters to try to get him started. He took whatever risk was involved moving his glasses the rest of the way off and onto the table. His eyes flickered over him, still trying to process.

“I can't really blame you for not seeing it, how could you...” he said softly.

He was hardly one to speak.

“You don't find it a little on the nose, dear?” he asked him gently.

“Nose?”

“Yes, the ah... You know, these...” he knelt down a little to look in his eyes a bit more easily, “These aren't things that are inherently bad, they don't need to be scared and threatened into behaving right... You don't need to terrorize them into being good enough.” he said, holding his face and fixing his hair, stroking his cheek, the one with the little snake “They're already quite lovely.” he said, kissing his forehead.

“The... plants?” he asked, eyes flicking up, widening for a moment.

“Well, dear, they should be as dear to you as...” he eyed the book on the desk, “As anything. You put so much time and care into them, so much of yourself... Yet I have never seen you be cruel to anyone or anything like you are to them.”

“You think I'm projecting.” he realized in a neutral tone, possibly too breathless to put any particular inflection on anything.

Crowley was not, in fact, stupid, and they both knew it. He had always been at least as clever as creative denial would allow. He did not even know what to do with the accusation yet, only that kind and clever fingers had him in a kind of trap.

“Then how is it? Being surrounded by all these rejected pieces?” he gestured around at what was implied to be a graveyard of his own aggressive pruning of himself, his tone defensive, a bite.

“I've always found it quite sweet that you would share something so personal with me. They're each so lovely. Having so much of you around me makes it feel like home.” he mumbled into his hair.

“Angel...”

He was trying to be annoyed, but he was being so soft with him again.

“And, well, I want to apologize, for ever having not realized... for any failure on my part to take proper care of them.” he said, kissing his hairline again.

Crowley swallowed his impulse to push back. He could not find the words, he could hardly think of why he wanted to be annoyed past all the useless flips his heart was doing.

“Then, what other clever conclusions have you come to?” he asked, not quite as testily as he would have preferred.

He thought that, maybe, if he breathed again, thoughts and intonation would come a little easier, but that could not be right.

“Well, it seems maybe we could revisit the question of moving in properly?” he said, tone soft and sweet and the implication uncharacteristically bold.

If he took this logic to its clearest extent, it seemed to stand to reason that what Crowley really wanted was to be close to him, physically, as much as anything, though he was not sure how he needed the plants to spell that out for him.

“But the er-plants?” he tried to default back to whatever reasoning they had come to before, wondering how much it aught to feel like an excuse.

He could feel himself losing mental traction and any ground he had in this exchange.

“Just as well. I think it might be better, from now on, if -I- decide who deserves to be punished.”

Crowley felt his heart shoot a terrible barb down through his stomach, knocking any breath that remained from him on the way.

Aziraphale only noticed his thumb had made its way to Crowley's bottom lip when it started to shake under it. This time it was Crowley's eye that lowered to trace over the words as they were spoken to him, just before snapping to fine slits.

“If- If you'll allow it, that is.” he amended, kissing his forehead again, thumb retreating back to his cheek to hold him securely.

Crowley was not in any state to argue or to agree to anything. He could feel his skin burning, his ears on fire. He felt like there were levels of implications being made here and he was not presently able to draw conclusions about which ones were intended and which were an innocent misunderstanding. If Aziraphale had implied something he had not meant to, he had not caught it himself. He pressed his lips together to stop them grasping at useless syllables again.

Still, it was the most wonderful discomfort he had ever been in, to be pried apart here and there, as much as he would allow, gently but relentlessly so all the places he was soft could be soothed with kisses and everywhere he felt empty could be filled with sweetness. He could not bear it and he never wanted it to stop. If he was ever forced to admit out loud that it was all a bit too fast, all of a sudden, he would make Aziraphale regret it. More empty threats.

“Let's ah... Let's have a hot coco? Or a drink?” he suggested, mercifully, giving him whatever emotional space he needed.

Crowley nodded, following him on impulse to standing but then feeling awkward enough to stay at the desk for a moment. He glanced over to the plant, which only vibrated a little nervously now that they were alone.

“Enough...” he said, expression cool but undeniable warmth behind it that he could not hold in, bringing a couple fingers up under a leaf to turn it in the light, “You heard him. He likes you. You get to stay.” he said, flicking the leaf inconsequentially away from him as he gave up his slouch against the desk.


	4. The appearance of falling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you have a history with parental rejection this one might hit nerves. I'm sorry. I'm not the one who decided this would involve the concept of fallen angels.
> 
> Not getting into the other history I implied yet, I'm probably going to introduce a lot more before I start tying things off.
> 
> *Also, I've settled with myself that I am probably going to keep writing updates. Each will be sure to end with some resolve and a positive note, but I think it might be good to change this to a WIP, but I'm not actually sure how. This is he first story I've published on AO3, so please forgive me while I learn how to navigate it.

Aziraphale supposed it was inevitable from the first that they would develop a dialogue that was ever increasingly their own. Usually that meant borrowing whatever words from their long, shared history to say what they needed, regardless of the time, because they both knew, they both remembered. Sometimes this involved age old codes or even a kind of sign language. Recently this had come to include a dialogue of body language -something Aziraphale could not remember being any good with- and abstractions, even innuendo, though not in the way most people might assume that word to be used.

For the past week, from the moment he was actually invited over again, he had been making very sure to tell each and every plant how lovely they were. By now every single one of them had flowered, much to Crowley's annoyance and embarrassment, even the ones they were not sure -should- flower.

“Attention seeking little traitors.” Crowley hissed.

“Oh come now... There's no shame in wanting love and attention.”, he said, cupping one flower gently to inspect it, “They're doing such lovely job of it too.” he cooed, taking his hand away slowly to let it settle on its own weight again without damage.

Crowley was an interesting sight too, hiding behind a hand and blushing that way, suddenly taking every interaction with the plants -very- personally. Aziraphale supposed that having been a nanny for approaching a solid decade was what spurred this particular bout of presenting male more often than not, since Crowley seemed to like maintaining an overall balance, of a kind, but a very feminine outfit or two were working their way back into the rotation on occasion, and not for any temptation or other business, but simply a celebration of that freedom.

Aziraphale was used to this coming with a much cooler demeanour, especially in modern times. Lipstick and eyeliner sharp enough to cut and a walk that spoke of cold premeditated murder. It was as though presenting female -and suddenly being treated as a potential target- made Crowley very automatically adapt a demeanour of ice-cold fire, a sharp edge, just to ward off and halt any abuse in its tracks, whether it be because she was approached as a woman or as a trans woman, the saunter became a kind of war-dance. In short, he was not used to seeing Crowley presenting female and seeming soft, or anything short of dominating. Crowley was still Crowley though, regardless of the gender of the moment, and Crowley could not look at him without turning red, as of late.

Crowley's hair, lately so short as to almost hide just how red it got under enough sun, now hung asymmetrically in sweeping expressive curls and bouncy tendrils the colour of blood and fire. The dress was black of course, the jewellery understated and as snake-themed as ever, with little ruby accents. The lipstick that usually brought sharp contrast to fiendish smiles was still dark and red, but he wondered how it stayed put behind the grip of sharp teeth or the hand she kept dragging across her face. Crowley now had to sit through watching him gently tend any plant he could find every time he visited and was not allowed to use his absence as a threat.

“Angel please.”

She could not bear to watch any more of this. It was only the beginning of their evening plans and her nerves were already raw. They still needed to go out; a show and then dinner.

Aziraphale could concede there was only so much he could promise unconditional love to the plants in front of Crowley without it counting as some kind of elaborate torture. She still tried to sit casually and proudly, but that blush that was near permanent had deepened in place. Aziraphale went over to the couch, leading the offending hand gently away from miraculously perfect lipstick.

“Perhaps we should wait until after dinner to risk messing this up?” he suggested gently about the makeup.

From the blank and narrow stare he had to assume his words had a potential meaning beyond what he had intended, but he was not sure what that was in this context, at least, he was not going to let his mind work at it. He sat and tipped Crowley's chin to inspect that everything was still at least symmetrical, not knowing enough to know what else to check for.

Crowley could not resist the impulse to try to hide against his chest, but a thumb on her chin halted the motion.

“And -do- try not to get lipstick on this shirt.”

“This shirt?” Crowley raised one eyebrow, taking part of the collar casually between two fingers, tilting her head, eyes narrowing and brushing a thumb over the fabric as if contemplating kissing the collar on purpose to make some kind of point.

It was intended as a threatening gesture. Crowley was so certain he would be the easier of them to embarrass. Other than the obvious risks to them involved, now largely past, if he was bothered by the assumption that they were a couple, he would have taken issue with it from the very first time they were spotted together in Rome.

“Crowley my dear, if you do that before we go out I will -not- miracle it away.” Aziraphale threatened, all sweetness, but firm.

“Bastard.” Crowley scolded him lightly, blushing hotter, and pushing him away to get up.

Of course the lipstick would not rub off until she intended it to, that was the point of a liquid lipstick, after all. She was -in fact- quite sure that makeup these days was formulated to stay flawless until it was removed, and thus that was always the experience.

They had a lovely evening without incident, as they always expected to when their focus was entirely on experiencing things together. The show was painfully modern, but fine, fun even. Dinner was lovely, and ran late, until it seemed a miracle that the restaurant had stayed open for them without complaint.

Finally, it was late and they had turned in, giggling through the hallway to the door as much as they thought could be polite at this hour. They took their seat as usual, retiring with a final glass of red wine, but when Crowley went to curl up against his chest, she was stopped again, and fixed him with a cold stare.

“Crowley dear. You are always lovely, but if you don't wash this off before we turn in...” he tried to say delicately, leaving the implication open ended.

Of course he was still concerned about getting the makeup on his clothes. The fact that Aziraphale's fingers even considered tugging at the perfectly tied bow tie was like electricity across her cheeks. There was no way he would actually just remove his shirt to save it, surely. Crowley immediately stood.

“Er, I uh, a... M. Almost forgot.” she said quickly, skirting around the couch and rushing off into another room.

Noises flooded out to the living area, but it did not sound like anything distressing. Crowley came back, looking refreshed, clean, dressed in something soft and ambiguous in black satin, hair still long but tied haphazardly back on top to keep it out of the way, now holding a gift bag.

“Oh.” he said, smiling and blushing a bit himself.

Brown and blue tartan flannel greeted him. Sleepwear. Dark, but still something he would wear.

“Well, that would simplify things a bit, wouldn't it?”

He was not sure how it had not occurred to him sooner, perhaps being tied up in how slowly they had made their way to sleeping together -again, not intended as some would mean the phrase- and how it was always on couches. He let Crowley lead him to the bathroom to change.

Crowley spent the time he was gone making pained noises muffled into a cushion, hoping to get it all out before he came back. The dam -of aloof distance- had broken and now he kept relentlessly peeling back layer after layer and tenderly addressing everything he found there. Crowley felt a lot like someone losing something, like a battle, especially for someone who kept being given so much, though, perhaps, at the expense of mental and emotional stability. All of this caring tenderness was at risk of sparking against the wrong thing and setting something uncontrollably aflame and there was nothing to be done to stop it. Crowley could only grip to every bit of denial and rationalization, every distraction available, and hope to buy time.

Aziraphale wandered lightly back out to the living room, clothes folded in a neat pile in his hands, now soft and patterned from head to toe. Crowley quickly sat up straight, playing at collected, and slid over to make room for him. He left his clothes on the side-table, and drew Crowley in against him. He kissed her dark widow's peak, now with all her hair brushed back, and the moment his hand swept into the waves, Crowley removed the elastic that was holding it all back. He had not yet played with Crowley's hair when it was long before, but he tried to be very gentle and make sure he did not pull any accidentally. Everything now was deep contented sighing and the subtle shift of flannel on satin.

~*~

“Aziraphale, please” he complained out loud.

“Is something the matter?”

“I can't take it any more.” he whined as if terribly pained.

They were standing near the table, he had not done a thing to him. Crowley was giving him a look up and down and shaking his head.

The issue was not the clothing exactly, or even that it was outdated, that had grown on him. It was that -for as much as he kept and maintained the clothes as well as possible- fabric still broke down in time, at some point fibre just turns to dust. So Aziraphale wore perfectly cared-for suits, as properly as possible without being too stiff, but not so occasionally he would find him in a vest that was clearly losing itself to time and Aziraphale -somehow- managed to neither notice nor care its dreadful condition.

“Look at it, angel, the thing is threadbare, it's like wearing a corpse.” he said, making a face.

“Don't be dramatic Crowley.”

Crowley just stared at him. Threadbare was bad enough, but threadbare fabrics that started with fibres like velvet or corduroy were particularly egregious.

“Oh -alright- yes, it's a little old, but I -like- this one... And I-”

Crowley was already rolling his eyes. It was not that, after all this time, he was suddenly going to take issue with these old and stubborn choices. It was not that he minded the garment, ultimately, if it made Aziraphale happy, it was that it seemed a couple years off of actually falling to dust, was utterly beyond repair, and he thought Aziraphale would be sad to see it go.

“Can't I just?” he tilted his head and left the rest implied, not knowing which syllable to go to next.

He slipped a finger along the edge of the vest from the top of the buttons down, and started slowly restoring the little fibres and the weave. Aziraphale said nothing. Meticulously, he filled it in, to a gradually increasing condition, probably letting his fingers dust the fabric more than they needed to. He knew Aziraphale would not really mind, he only seemed to have an issue with maintaining these things with miracles himself. Aziraphale rolled his eyes in turn, as if to say 'if you must' but watched him render it like new without protest, a fond smile peeking through.

“Thank you, dear.” he said as Crowley reached up to straighten his bow tie, just a moment before clearly wondering if he should, and withdrawing awkwardly.

Aziraphale caught his hand lightly, bringing it back subtly towards his chest. Now that the vest was whole again, he had to concede that it looked nice together, even if that was because he was used to his style by now; easy when he only had the one. He adjusted his lapels, smoothing them, probably the only time he had ever handled them gently instead of using them as handles. Still, he felt like he was standing too close and like anything too expressive would be rude in such proximity. Aziraphale stepped a bit closer. Strange really, to be this close and not have to be the one looking up. Easy to forget he was taller when they were always laying down.

“Why don't we step out to the roof for a bit? Stretch our wings?” he suggested, from under his nose.

“Mm? Er, yeah.” Crowley said a little too long after he had stepped away.

~*~

The air, he found, was fresh but gaining warmth, very slowly, even as the snow crunched under foot. Red light cut shattered neon across the blue and white of snow and shadow on the rooftops. It was far too bright, right in the corner of his vision but after a moment it would be gone to leave them with softening and darkening pinks and blues. Aziraphale's wings stretched open and picked up all the cold and warm tones of the snow and sky. Crowley's opened and only reflected the occasional bit of blue like glass over darkness and burned sharply red at the edges of feathers as if on fire.

He unfolded his own quietly watching Aziraphale's face a little too much to be wholly absorbed in his own stretching. He always looked like he took such indulgent pleasure in being able to stretch those muscles, like it was decidedly sensual, enough to make him wonder if maybe the angel's wings were not significantly more sensitive than his own and not at all fond of being cramped up. For him it was already like a combination of sitting on a limb in an awkward fold all day and letting down a very tight high ponytail that you were not used to, but with more relief and pleasure than pain or discomfort and a tendency to crawl down the nerves in his back. Just stretching them felt like a needed massage. Aziraphale's were a mess, of course.

He opened his eyes, after a long moment of feeling the cool air brush through them to find Crowley quietly -not so subtly- watching him. His eyes lingered on his wings and he could not help but feel they were being appraised in much the same way as his vest was. Crowley raised an eyebrow at him and he similarly rolled his eyes. He nudged one out towards him very subtly, either offering something or accepting a standing offer. Crowley's hands seemed magnetically attracted to them all of a sudden, but stopped short with the same abruptness.

He was overwhelmed for a moment with feeling like this was something he should not be doing. They looked so bright and soft, and full of light. He was not sure how much of humanity's notions about fallen angels having dark wings and angels having white wings actually came directly from the rare occasions people had managed to see the two of them for what they were, but seeing their wings always made him acutely aware of their differences, even more so than when Aziraphale -tragically prone to occasional accidental cruelty- reminded him on purpose. He could never really tell him how much his words affected him sometimes, knowing he did not mean them to be unkind and would be so heart broken; but then, he seemed to be slowly gaining a sense of it and trying to make it up to him. White feathers came up to brush thickly into his hand and between his fingers, encouraging him, telling him it was wanted, and as soft to touch as his most dream-like memory.

Aziraphale sat as he extended his wing, settling on the bench they left there and getting as stiffly comfortable as he could. He watched Crowley blush and felt his fingers tremble very subtly, against the feathers, as if afraid to be too rough, too invasive, and tried to slowly coax him over the the bench by very gradually relaxing his wing.

He watched him slowly finish running his fingers through where they were and then carefully separate one feather at a time, not moving them too sharply at the base, to smooth out any separations or kinks in the anterior barbules, smoothing all their little fibres and parts back together between his fingers in sets so the barbs down each shaft sat together smoothly, stuck to one another and able to move as a single thing, making it so they came together again in a tidy, unbroken edge. He held each one carefully at the shaft so the tugging motion did not tug at the whole feather. Of course he probably should have expected that he really would try to be this gentle.

It felt like hair, but stiffer, and deeper, the largest ones almost a small bone anchored only in fine but strong muscular tissue. Articulating it externally was not -in sensation- unlike shifting a finger bone around to feel the stretch of the muscle in the joint, just finer, sharper, in his skin next to all the nerves. At the surface it was sharp and tugged -tight- though small motions could feel like scratching an itch, especially if the feather wanted to shed, and deeper it pulled and pushed robustly at the surrounding flesh. Done right it could feel massaging and pleasantly chilling and crawl wonderfully through the whole wing and his back, done wrong it could hurt horribly, burning and pointed.

Crowley was certainly doing it right, and he had underestimated what it would feel like to have someone else handle them this way, and so much more gently than he had the patience for himself. He could not help but watch him slowly and carefully take each feather in turn and subject it to this, but it was also unbearable to keep looking. Crowley was shyly keeping his eyes to his work, and that was a small mercy, but it made him think of all the times he had spoiled him with attention until he was a blushing and flustered mess and felt a sweet pang of guilt for how much joy and amusement he had taken from causing it.

Crowley was so focused that his eyes slowly gave up the pretence of having a human-like sclera at all, something he did not see that often any more. To think, all the things he had read that depicted or romanticized the serpent of Eden -or mythical beings of shared origins- through all of human history, and he had been next to him since the beginning, a real person, his companion, currently sitting here preening his wing. To him Crowley was Crowley, but to the world Crowley was something else. It made him wonder sometimes what he thought of his own fame and all the assorted forms of fanfare that Aziraphale had been -perhaps very blessedly- left out of, but he did not want to bring it up, sensitive subjects and all.

Among other things, it reminded him of all the times he himself had obviously been so focused on something else, and it had left Crowley with nothing to do but watch him and be left to his own thoughts and observations. He could not remain oblivious to the way Crowley watched him, not after all this time. He supposed lately they had finally traded places, leaving Crowley to be indulged and him to observe, but even at that, what Crowley was indulging in had consistently become Aziraphale; by him, really. Now that had inverted too, and he could feel himself scrambling for mental distractions just to make it all a little less poignant.

“Funny,” he began, torn between memories and the methodic working of his wing, “That it took the world so many millennia to come up with a phrasing that was as succinct and as exact in meaning as the turn of phrase you came up with that day...”

Crowley could not know what he was on about yet, but a small smile betrayed that it already seemed like a compliment.

“Our first conversation... A lead balloon.” he specified, noting it to be the most equivalent translation he had heard.

Crowley twitched almost imperceptibly a moment before he finished the lopsided smile, still working a feather, and still quite distracted. If it was not for how much he had been practising paying extra careful attention to him lately, he would have missed the flicker in his brow.

“What is it dear?”

“Hm? Nothing.” he said, shaking his head and not looking up from his task.

He wanted to reach out to him but he would have to extract himself first.

“Crowley?” he tried to gently grasp him with his voice instead.

This finally got him to look up, and then immediately avert his eyes. When Aziraphale would not stop staring directly at him and looking concerned, he relented with a sigh, one he had been holding in for a very long time.

“Wasn't technically.” he admitted.

“Wasn't technically... Do you remember something? From before...” But Crowley cut him off before he could drag up an even more sensitive subject.

“Wasn't technically the first time we spoke. In the garden.” he specified.

He was trying to brush it off as unimportant. He had never wanted to bring it up because it was silly really and the very fact that Aziraphale probably did not remember would be upsetting to him. Aziraphale, above all else, wanted to believe he was kind. Crowley could sense insecurity like Aziraphale could sense love, and what the angel dreaded most was the idea that deep down he was -or had the very real capacity to be- callous, careless, thoughtless, unkind or neglectful in any way. Aziraphale was not always perfect in that regard, but he tried so hard to be, and to bring it to his attention that he had forgotten an exchange between them because Crowley had been -in a sense- beneath his notice at the time, felt like it would be cruel. So he never ended up correcting him.

It all also ignored their more one-sided interactions. Aziraphale had been a kind of grounds keeper in the garden, sometimes watching the east gate, sometimes guarding or watching other things, like the tree, it was hard to visit the garden and not notice him. He was sure they must have at least been aware of each other for a decently long time, but Crowley had almost always been in the form of a snake on any relevant occasions, when he was present in the garden at all.

“Pardon me dear, but I should think that I'd remember...”

“It's nothing.” Crowley interjected again, quite willing to drop it.

“Please?” Aziraphale stopped his protest in its tracks to quietly insist.

“Well... You, er... Yelled at me once.” he admitted, blushing and trying to refocus on what he was doing with his hands.

“ _Yelled_ at you?” he said, like he was pleading.

“Scolded, more like... You didn't know it was me, at the time.” he sighed and tried to adjust his thoughts, juggling them around to an approach that made sense and was palatable, “I was a snake of course.”

That made him feel a bit better, there were lots of animals in the garden and he did not have any reason to take note of one particular snake back then. He let a blend of relief and fondness curl his lips away from worry.

“I can't imagine what reason I'd have had to yell at you.” he said, now curious about what story from their history he was about to be told, what simple meeting from a simpler time.

Crowley made a kind of reluctant and non-committal sound, and took a hissing breath.

“I was...” he blushed, “Under foot -so to speak- at the time.”

“I didn't?” Aziraphale asked, alarmed.

“You -almost- put your weight down on my tail... You did catch it though, took your weight back... Almost tripped actually it was -almost- funny. You, clutching your chest... But then...” Crowley explained, and could not help but smile fondly, in spite of everything.

Aziraphale was wincing and squinting as if trying to recall, and getting close, but not really wanting to.

“You seemed -too- upset at the idea that you might have hurt... me.” he said with an odd slight pause and softening before the last word.

“And I yelled at -you- for it?” he seemed too distressed about this even now, “I didn't say anything dreadful did I?” he asked, but the corner of Crowley's mouth twitched up.

They exchanged looks and it was clear his amused fondness was bewildering to him, it also made him think that maybe this would not turn out so badly, that he had brought it up. Crowley knew now he could be honest and still probably save Aziraphale's conscience.

“Oh Angel... No one else would have cared. The rest of your lot would have been eager to sniff out a demon in the garden and happily step on me, stomp on me, slay me... Whatever they could get away with and act like I deserved it for being there... But you...” he went on, the amusement coming to the forefront now, “To -you- it didn't matter whether I was a demon or anything else, I'm not sure you bothered noticing, you were just upset at the thought that you could have hurt a living thing. How -I- could have been hurt. You just _cared._ ”

Asides from that, he had seemed to already be having a bad day. He had -surprised and reactive- scolded him, hilariously worked up about it, and eventually picked him up, put him up on a warm rock to nap instead, and told him -still agitated, but giving way to embarrassed- that crawling around under foot was no place for him, and to stay there on the rock, where he was out of harm's way; as illogical and contrary as that demand had been. Crowley, then Crawley, had just been thankful that snakes could not blush and had sat there in hot and awkward embarrassment, letting himself be yelled at, and handled, because the idea of an angel caring if they stepped on him had blind-sided him. It was also -though not exactly direct- the first time someone had expressed concern for him since he fell.

“I'd have bitten anyone else for handling me like that.” he said almost wistfully.

“You didn't -say- anything?” he asked, clearly embarrassed and tone desperate.

“I couldn't get a word in edgewise.” Crowley said with an expression similar to when he was told he had given the sword away, eyebrows raised and shaking his head at the memory in front of him, too amused.

He was trying not to openly grin, resulting in a lot of twitching smirks. It was nice to see him all flustered like this, it felt like he had regained some ground.

“Crowley is that?” he paused a moment, distracted by the shift to combing fingers through smaller, softer feathers, “Is that why, on the wall...”

Crowley smiled in acquiescence, relatively assured Aziraphale could not even see him.

“Anyone else... any angel, or even most demons would have just ignored I had even spoken... At best.” he conceded, “but you... I didn't think it -entirely- hopeless that you might at least care that I had spoken.”

“I suppose I didn't disappoint, then?” he said softly, and a bit more cheerfully, edging towards one of his more playful wiggles.

“No, angel.” Crowley mumbled into his hair, now settling entirely behind him to stroke fine downy feathers into a proper arrangement near his shoulder.

Not disappointed, not then. Certainly whatever doubts he had experienced came later, when he was forced to accept that Heaven's kindest angel was also heaven's most frustratingly obedient -even when it was obviously a prison and so opposite to his nature, even when it plainly left him feeling broken and miserable- and periodically again after that when he was forced to question if it would not be more respectful to leave him to his own devices, after a certain point of protest, but that was not something to get into. It was written in their mutual understanding and no good could come of dragging it up or discussing any of it directly, surely.

His hair was very soft and he smelled like old paper, coco and all the things he chose to scent and surround himself with. His wings were politely perched into this plane in a way that fully respected the fabric over his back, so he could not even entertain the notion of massaging any of the tension properly out of those muscles, not more than he could by pressing strategically against layers of fabric. He was very warm for the cold night air and Crowley wanted to fold into it, but he carried on to the other wing, thinking it absolutely offensive to leave this half done.

Aziraphale was trying to think about some other way to start conversing again because being alone with quiet breathing and the meticulous, mercilessly, slow and gentle treatment of his wings was starting to feel like doing ninety in the middle of the city. He was trying to be quiet and still, but that was starting to require a distraction he did not have. Now he knew the pattern he was working in, and anticipating the move to the next feather and then it finally happening each time was making his nerves try creative new ways to express themselves. The chills felt like they were sliding up his neck to spill across his brain in an altogether very pleasant way. Crowley was clearly not even attempting anything but dutifully doing his best to make them each proper again, very systematically, with such care; but -surely- he must know what it felt like. He felt drunk.

“Is everything alright?” he asked him and the slight uncertainty tugged at Aziraphale's heart.

“Er, yes. Yes it's lovely thank you.” he said, too quietly and too quickly.

Crowley let himself smirk devilishly where Aziraphale could not see. He was trying to be as gentle and respectful as possible of course, but this still felt like sweet vengeance, for all those times Aziraphale had been relentlessly tender towards him, probably knowing full well what it was doing to him. A lesson to help him empathise, even.

“It's just very...” he cleared his throat.

“Sensitive.” Crowley finished for him, some clashing of cold knowledge and warm fondness in his voice, “I know.”he said lightly.

If anything he had renewed how gentle he was being and that might have been worse. He closed his eyes and resigned himself to just enjoying it. He focused on keeping the tension out of his throat so he would not make some embarrassing sound. When Crowley got to finally raking his fingers through the base to straighten the under-layer around the joint he could not help but roll his head a little, letting the shivers run through him without letting himself shake visibly, but it was over too quickly. When Crowley finished he stood to stretch his wings once more and settle them into a comfortable position. He tried to blink something akin to seduction out of his eyes, and keep it from his voice.

“There now,” he tried to say brightly, “Is that...”

He had turned to get Crowley's opinion, but stopped when he saw he had gone pale, lower lip quivering almost imperceptibly, eyes wide, and his pupils fine slits. He checked back to his other side, expecting to see some source of danger for all the apprehensive staring through him. Then it occurred to him what Crowley was staring at.

“Oh dear.” he softened, watching Crowley let his hand drop helplessly to his side, “No, no... Look at me.” he said, trying to quickly gauge whether approaching him would be worse.

Crowley looked like he was mentally retreating into himself, into a bad memory. He carefully took his hand and watched him try to shake it off, bringing the other to drag roughly through his hair.

Suddenly, Crowley had been subjected to a very striking image of Aziraphale looking far more clean-cut and well groomed than he usually was, expression far too heated and indulgent and surrounded by far too much darkness and faded light.

“Crowley...” he said softly, all concern and love.

“I- It's just, for a second, you, er...” he tried to explain, staring, wide and sharp, from behind his hand down into the snow between them.

For one moment that he was entirely unprepared for, the demon Aziraphale had been adjusting one cuff to ask him what he thought of his handiwork.

“...Looked like I'd been groomed by a demon?” he suggested gently.

Of course he did. He had been, after all. That was Crowley's own doing. His voice groaned without his permission in frustration with himself. He truly was the architect of his own suffering. Still, now Azirapahle had gathered him into a comforting hug. He was warm and soft. There was no aggression in how he was being handled, no hunger, only sweetness. The hand behind his head was light and stroked his hair gently. When he brushed, nearly nose to nose, past him it was to kiss his forehead lovingly. When he spoke in his ear it was to comfort him.

“That's it...” he cooed as Crowley relaxed, “Let's get you inside and warmed up, shall we? What would you say to a nice cup of coco?” he asked softly, “Perhaps with a touch of whisky...” he added when Crowley seemed unconvinced.

~*~

Now the focus was back on him and almost too much to bear all over again. Aziraphale seemed intent on spoiling him with any comfort he would accept and anything he seemed to enjoy. He was used to being the attentive one, not being catered to. He could not say it was not reassuring though, that if Aziraphale was changing at all, it was in the ways he wanted to, getting to be kinder, softer, more loving and more attentive. It was easier to accept it all, knowing it benefited Aziraphale as much, ultimately, knowing it was something he wanted.

Aziraphale did what he could to make him comfortable. He got him his drink, the blanket, and held him as close as was practical at the moment. He wondered if they should address whatever this was, or if it was just an expected reaction that did not bear discussing more than they already had.

“You know, dear...” he eventually brought himself to begin, “If I did... fall, I wouldn't stop being me any more than you stopped being you.” he offered, hoping it would help, “And I think you know better than anyone, at least I hope you do, that... Well that whether or not an angel falls... Knowing you, it seems at least, it has very little to do with their morality or character.”

He supposed they were on the subject now.

“Oh, angel... That's not really,” he said before sighing deeply, “It's not that I think you'd become someone else, not... Not -really- and I don't know if it would take you -changing- for it to happen in the first place... But it isn't about me -having you- is it?”

“Er, w- I'm not sure I follow.”

“Angel, it -changes- you, not.. Not because of the changes in your body, or your brain, not because of the pain or what side you're on or what...”, he gestured around, “Things can burn you... Not because it imposes anything on you. Not directly...”, he took a deep breath, not sure he even ever wanted to explain this, “It changes things for you... what things mean...”

He was at a loss. He did not know how to explain something he had never really fully processed himself.

“One day, you're helping Her put the stars in the sky, building the world and creating alongside Her, and love is... Love is unconditional and everything is love and done with love and... and then one day it's not.” he tried to elaborate, “Love's become a conditional thing and it's too late, and you've done something wrong, you -must have- because you're being punished, told you're bad, the worst even, lower than the lowest, a disappointment, a failure, and that love is taken away, and you're told you deserve it, and it's your fault, and not just Her love, angel, but -all- love. All of it.” he went on, his voice getting increasingly unsteady, agitated, and starting to shake.

Aziraphale took his cup and set it aside, but he did not even seem to notice.

“You can't sense it any more. You can't feel it... Not the way you used to. And you're told you don't deserve it, not ever again, that you can't -be- forgiven.”, tears were running free now, “A-and it burns, to be stripped away from it, Her love, and to be cast down, and i-it, it feels like everything before was all lies. And anything that's good and made of that love starts to -burn- you. And you start forgetting things, because it hurts to remember, and you can't... You can't remember...” his hands met his own mouth before he could quite stop his voice.

He took a long shaky breath, trying to get his voice back. This was not what he wanted to get caught up in. For all he had ever joked about it not being so bad to fall, after the fact, even he knew that was something of a defence. He was vaguely aware of Aziraphale trying to console him, but he could not see past the tears now.

“I don't want you to have to know.” he said very much more quietly, hands lowering to a pleading gesture.

It was bad enough he had already said so much on it. The last thing he wanted was for Azirapahle to get a real sense of what it was like, or to be left feeling the same way he did about it all, even just empathetically. Azirapahle was, in so many ways, tied up in considering himself a being of love, and Crowley did not want to see what it would do to him to feel alienated from that.

“Angel, it's not that I'd stop wanting you, no matter what, or that I really think you'd leave me, it's not... about me. It's about what you want -for yourself- about who -you- want to be.”

There was not a lot Aziraphale identified with outside of being an angel, or outside of that love. If Aziraphale stopped being able to be the being of love he so wilfully identified as, especially because of him, he could not bear it.

“Oh Crowley...” he said, his voice so very soft.

He pulled him into him, as tightly as he could, bringing his hands in to kiss them and hold them to his chest, and wrap him up under his chin. He did not know if Crowley had cried about this in a very long time, or if it was falling that he was crying about at all, rather than his fear of what could be. Aziraphale's own vision was clouded with tears, but he held him as securely as he could around all the subtle sobbing.

He did not mean to bring all this up. He had meant to make sure he was properly decompressing after being reminded of that dream. He did not know if this was a necessary part of that, or if he had just made something worse.

“Crowley, listen to me,” he said, rubbing the backs of his arms, “I don't need to be able to sense love to know how much I love you. And I know -because of you- that being a demon wouldn't keep me from loving. If I can love, and I can express it to you in ways you understand, then that's enough. More than enough.”

Then he was grabbed again, a bit of a surprise this one time, if for no other reason than Crowley's obvious state, and their noses brushed together again before Crowley collapsed back against his chest. This time he had lingered enough that he caught it. He understood why Crowley kept doing that. He wanted to kiss him. Right now he was very emotional though and this was not really the time to address that. Still, a sweet little flutter filled his chest.

“...And I don't think I'd really need to sense love to know how you feel.” he tried to put it as delicately as possible, his voice newly soft.

He tried to wipe his tears away but then Crowley was kissing his palm instead.

“Angel, I'd tell you every day, if I had to... Every moment, I'd...”

Watching his lip quiver was one -heartbreaking- thing, feeling it against his own palm was entirely another. Crowley had always struggled with the words, as if he knew they would burn in his throat, or as if actually speaking the words was like some spell, something he was not allowed, or there would be consequences. It was hard to blame him. It never seemed to be having doubts that got them in trouble, it seemed voicing them was more what was punished.

Full yellow eyes stared at him tearfully from behind the hand Crowley had stolen to cover his feelings with. Crowley's hand was shaking on his, but gripped him in place, and he did not really want to extract his own hand from where it was anyway. He gently guided him in closer to kiss the snake on his cheekbone, once softly, and then a few more times. He wanted to hold him close, but Crowley kept pulling away as if there was still more to be said.

“I know.” he consoled, him.

Crowley seemed to swallow something back into himself.

“You do sense it then?” he asked, slowly, a shy admission.

“Of course, dear boy. I always have.”

Now Crowley turned red and enthusiastically conceded to being held close, if only to hide, so Aziraphale could tuck them in.

It was never that he did not sense it, or even that he outright denied it, more than he was often at a loss as to what to do with it, especially when it had been something dangerous to Crowley.

“Crowley, dearest...” he asked eventually, now stroking his hair, “Is there a lot you don't remember?”

He did not want to make him talk about it, and he would let him pretend to be sleeping if that was what he wanted, but it was not often they actually opened a dialogue about these things in particular. He knew he must remember some things from before, he commented on some of it regularly enough.

“It's probably better this way...” he finally sighed gently into his shirt, “When you lose so much, to have that... Distance, that...” his hand brushed against him looking for the word.

“Disconnection?” Aziraphale suggested.

“I always figured that's why I forgot... Because it hurt too much. Because that was the only way it stopped burning so badly.” he said like he had already made a kind of tired peace with it.

“Are you worried that if I fall, that I might forget you?” Aziraphale was almost afraid to ask.

“I don't know.” he said after a long moment, “I didn't think forgetting was part of the punishment, I always just figured it was...” he made a whining uncertain sound in the back f his throat, “Kind of a symptom.”

“Oh.” he said quietly, coming to understand.

Crowley -though maybe not in exact terms- had assumed it was the trauma of it. He assumed he forgot so much -of what he had before- because the loss was too much to cope with otherwise.

“Even...” Aziraphale almost asked, tilting his head and pursing his lips, but stopped again.

He looked at Crowley, pleading silently with him not to drag out of him what he was about to ask.

“Even?” Crowley asked him, brow raised.

“Well, dear, you've never mentioned... I, perhaps similarly, assumed that it was too painful...”

Crowley was not backing down, holding his gaze as steadily as he could from off his chest.

“Well, I don't imagine your name had always been Crawley?” he suggested as softly as he could.

Crowley could be upset he was dragging up that old thing, and certainly he used to say it far more than Crowley liked, but now if the context for it ever came up he could not bring himself to mind hearing it said with such affection. Aziraphale respected that he did not identify with it, and he was grateful for that, but it had never sounded like the lowly squirmy thing -that it did the way everyone else said it- when it was coming from his lips. Aziraphale had always managed to make it sound like the name of a person; these days, a person who he happened to think -very- fondly of. It was the name that had been burned into his soul -possibly very intentionally, and perhaps mercifully- over whatever used to reside in its place. He sighed deeply.

“No.” he admitted, finally, “No, I don't remember it.” he said somewhere close to a whisper.

“You... You don't remember anything from before the fall?” Crowley asked him, though he was not sure if he was nearly brave enough to have done so after all.

Aziraphale let out a long, pained sigh.

“Well, I hardly remember anything about myself... It was so long ago, and well, I think it might have all been very uneventful, up to a certain point, not much to remember... Not much reason to.”

He did not want to let him down, but Crowley seemed relieved, if anything.

“Though, I'm sure that if we had encountered each other, I -would- remember that.” Aziraphale said, not sounding entirely like he was not trying to convince himself of it.

He could only imagine what he could have been like before falling, but he did not know if there was a way to phrase that sentiment that would make it perfectly clear he could never want Crowley to be anything other than who he was, and even if there was, he thought that could still be insensitive. Instead he did his best to slowly and gently let himself feel everything he did towards him, actively, in the moment, watching him for any sign of distress, letting himself respond openly, unguarded to the waves of love he always felt off of him. He tucked him up close, right under his chin, wordlessly suggesting things to him like safety, certainty and security. He hoped that somehow, if it was strong enough, personal enough, immediate enough, he might be able to feel something of it.

Crowley hummed in contentment, so he kept going, burying his nose into his hair and curling around him. The more he let energy out to wash over him, the more he seemed to bask in it, and respond helplessly in kind, love spilling out of him, whether or not he could feel that he was doing it. He wondered if it could be safe to press that energy into him at all, if he might feel it then, if it would be welcome. When he slowly let himself cover him with it, gently slipping around him, the only response he got was a contented sigh.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley asked him, after a long time of melting progressively further over him until he had been sure he was asleep.

“Yes, my dearest?” he said, still slowly stroking his hair.

“Is this what heaven was like?”

The question was so small and sweet, so unguarded and even innocent, possibly not even wholly consciously asked. He felt more of his own tears leave his eyes. Thankfully it did not take all that much thought to know how to answer that.

“I think this is better actually.” he said gently, “Heaven was never so personal.”

He kissed his forehead tenderly, earning another one of those lovely huffs of breath. Again his nose rose from his chest to meet his own, but the moment he could taste his breath, Crowley melted away again, sighing deeply to himself, at least sounding contented this time.

~*~

It had taken a while to actually witness for himself, but Aziraphale finally had a sense of how and why the stray paint kept getting higher up Crowley's arm. Each time he caught him painting, he found him wearing shorter and shorter sleeves, or even removing everything but an under shirt, all seemingly a progressing attempt to keep the paint off his clothes. This time he had finally happened to come over when Crowley was not eager to put down what he was working on to switch focus, and finally actually got to see him paint.

When he was painting it seemed he had focus for little else. At some point the rag and the pallet he was using would get full enough and he would need to wipe the brush clean or press it into a particular shape quickly as he was working, and just end up wiping it on his arm. It also got on his hands, and thus got smeared on his elbows and occasionally his cheek. This time he watched the end of the brush smear across a muscle on his upper arm as he folded his arms to himself in a moment of contemplation without bothering to put down the brush.

If there was one thing giving him pause about insisting Crowley move in with him altogether, it was that he really did seem to have his own need for space, and spaces. He had not even seen how he kept his room, or what spaces he had here asides from the ones he had been shown. He did want him to consider the shop his home, at least as much as anywhere else, but that was not really what he had come here to discuss that day.

“Crowley dear?” he asked and got a small distracted sound, ”I've been thinking...”

Crowley turned a little to glance at him, arms folded and the brush adding to the sleeves of paint covering his arms.

“Of course, angel.” he teased him with a light smirk, which Aziraphale ignored.

“And I've been doing some reading...” he said, waiting for the next eyebrow quirk to meet it with a level look. “Well, I just thought, there's a decent chance they'll try to come after us again eventually... Perhaps not soon, but at some point.”

Crowley sighed deeply but only nodded to himself for the moment.

“So I've been looking through some of my -oldest- resources, and I think... Well, it occurs to me that we might benefit from some warding, of a sort.”

“Warding?”

“Yes, I still have a lot to look through, but...”

“Against angels and demons?” Crowley interrupted him to intone gravely, quickly checking to make sure no one was listening.

“Well, yes.”

“Angel, that's old magic, that is...” he said, now finally discarding the brush into a jar of water.

“I just though, that with everything that might be coming, someday, it might be to our benefit if we really could, you know, manoeuvre without being noticed.”

“I'm not saying it isn't a good plan... I'm just not sure it's possible.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh angel, you don't think I'd have tried?” Crowley was asking him to consider just how he would have benefited from being invisible, untraceable, even to other demons.

“Of course I've considered that, I just didn't think you'd have the means...” he was not trying to imply Crowley had just been incredibly negligent or thick, “Warding against angels, unfortunately, takes angelic energy... So I assumed...”

“That I didn't have some other angel come around to mark my flesh without telling you? Figured you'd have noticed me missing?” Crowley asked, half way between offended and teasing him.

“Mark? Dear boy, what are you...” he stopped when Crowley's hand met his forehead, and he sat down next to him.

“These spells you're speaking of, angel. Where do you think they need to be written to guard a living thing?”

“Oh. Oh! Oh dear, that won't do at all.”

Warding a living thing would mean marking their flesh permanently, and to ward against angels would involve imbuing it with angelic energy. Similarly, warding against demons would require it being imbued with demonic energy. If either of them tried to have their flesh marked that way, it would probably only burn them, or worse. If Crowley was going to try anything of the sort it was Aziraphale precisely who he would come to, and given the risks he would have refused.

“These spells you're looking at, angel, they're intended for humans.” he said, watching Aziraphale already sighing in defeat, “Otherwise both sides would already be abusing them.”

“Well, when you put it like that.” he said shaking his head.

Then he stopped though, tilting his head just slightly.

“What ideas are you playing with now?” Crowley asked, but any harshness or warning had dropped from his voice.

Aziraphale did not know how to tell him, at just that moment, that if Crowley could feel the love pouring off of himself, he might have some equal suspicion that a demon could generate a fair deal of -very personal- energy that could be quite safely given to an angel. He was not sure how to frame that gently, and it was only one half a solution at best.

“Oh nothing.” he said, less than honestly, “I'll keep looking into it, but you're probably right.” he brushed it off for the moment and took his hands instead.

He did not doubt that Crowley had done his own research or come to competent conclusions, he just thought he might be underestimating how unique their position was. He looked at his hand. This time the paint on his arm was still wet, and too close to both clothing and a decent sofa. Aziraphale got up and lead him to the kitchen sink.

“If this keeps up, you'll have it halfway across your chest next.” he said, wetting a paper towel at the sink.

Crowley would ask him what exactly he was implying, but -even after thousands of years- he was never quite certain when Aziraphale was implying anything. He seemed so set on caring for him, especially now, that he seemed to forget things like how affecting it could be to be handled so carefully, even with a recent lesson involving his wings. He had always been that way though, even back in Eden, he had picked him up to set him in the sun, headless of the possibility of being bitten, and so unexpectedly gentle. Then every time since; after the church, every bit of casual contact or moment of concern, the time in the park, and every time he had held him after that. He had even made sure the water he was using was warm enough to be comfortable. Now Aziraphale took his hand to rub off the paint under the warm water.

“You know, I could do that.” Crowley finally protested, not liking the breathy quality to his voice.

He did not really want to discourage this, but he imagined there was a point at which this became an outright ridiculous excuse.

“Oh? Can you dear? Because I seem to recall more than one occasion where you showed up at my shop looking like you were bleeding in technicolour all over your hands.”

“The paint was dry.” Crowley protested, voice weakening when he saw that Aziraphale actually seemed amused more than earnestly scolding him.

He took his other hand to the sink. Now he was very gently pinned to the counter, or it felt like he was. Aziraphale could not possibly know. He could not conceivably know what it felt like to have him carefully massaging the paint off of his cuticles, or his palms, or his wrist. He could not know what it was like to have his hands work methodically up his arm. He had tried to make a point of enlightening him, letting him experience something similar himself, but the lesson did not seem to be taking. At least facing the sink he could not see him biting back any reaction he might have.

“Well, it's the least I can do.” he smiled softly as if to himself, “Unless you think I'd be any good at helping you with your wings.” he said, gently towelling his hands.

Crowley managed to mostly swallow the sound his throat tried to make. He had a feeling very much like trying to do mathematics while very drunk. All of the numbers were there in front of him, and he was relatively certain that together they meant something, but the logic of it was slippery and he could not be entirely certain he was not imagining connections and meanings that were not really there. Surely -surely- Aziraphale remembered what it was like, at least he had to assume a week could not dull the memory so much, for them -in some ways- that was like a breath ago, and he could not very well be thinking Crowley could be any less affected by it than he was; the evidence likely being to the contrary if anything. He could feel the heat in his face, unfortunately.

“Please...” his voice managed to wiggle out before he could decide how he meant that.

Aziraphale just looked up at him with bright eyes and a little smile. His smile was so sweet Crowley could never figure out whether to think it was hiding anything at all. If it was it was a very clever disguise.

“Oh. My apologies, I should have asked if you were actually done first.”

“M?” he asked, finally forfeiting a rare emotive blink.

“Well, it doesn't do to get you cleaned up if you plan to get back to it. I imagine you aren't done with it, you've been staring at it critically for a solid twenty minutes.”

“T's what artists do...” Crowley shrugged it off, shaking his head.

“Well, maybe a second pair of eyes might help.” he said, finally releasing his hands and returning to the other room.

Now that Crowley could breathe again he shot a helpless look over to the tomato plant, just needing someone to empathise with the situation, maybe pleading with it to impress him, before following him back out to the other room.

He found Aziraphale seemingly trying to sort out the optimal viewing distance and settling on a few meters away.

“I'm sure you know best, but I think it's quite lovely.”

Crowley made a face, and then resisted elaborating for a few moments.

“Eh, I just can't get the colours to look vibrant enough this time... It doesn't matter what I do, they just come off a little... Muddy? Flat? Er...” he said, wondering if he had found the right word yet.

“Pardon, my dear, but where exactly?”

“All over...” he gestured around the top third of the painting and down the one side, “You know, there.” he said vaguely.

Aziraphale -really- was not seeing it. He long suspected they did not see colours the same as each other to begin with, but with their ability to perform miracles and Crowley's ability to pick out colours when he needed to, he was never able to settle on one conclusive suspicion. He suspected, generally, that Crowley might be somewhat colour blind, as snakes were, or so he had recently learned, in his natural state, but the evidence was largely inconsistent. He was not sure they had even run into it head-on before.

“Crowley dear? Is... Is there a chance that you're not, ah... Looking at it the way you normally would?” he said and turned to him.

Crowley met his eyes for a very long moment before his eyebrows flew up in realization. He cursed a couple times and went over to the paints, picking up a few of tubes, shaking them slightly in frustration and hurrying to stick pieces of masking tape around them, scribbling something on them quickly with a pencil.

He could have slapped himself. He knew that in any form his eyes did not naturally see colour the way a human's did, though of course what they could and could not perceive at any given time was somewhat of a choice that they only had to make. Still, sometimes he got so ingrained in habits of when to change his colour perception, and when not to bother with all that extra visual stimulation, that he stopped consciously deciding when it was needed. Somehow it had not always wholly occurred to him that -painting- was one of those times when he should bother with it. He was just capturing things the way he saw them, or remembered seeing them anyway.

Aziraphale, now immensely curious, wandered over to inspect which tubes of paint were probably being labelled something vindictive. It was not at all what he was expecting though. He had expected that maybe red or green paint, possibly yellow would be in the mix, but what he found was a hastily scrawled labelling of the pthalo blue, Cyan and a kind of violet verging on magenta.

“Wait, you know?” Crowley said after a moment, before seeing the look on his face.

He could not stand to see him looking so disconcerted.

“What is it Angel?”

“Well, I -suspected- of course. Hard not to after so long, but I didn't think...” he trailed off.

All this time.

“Crowley... It's not... Tell me it isn't -blue- that you can't see?” he pleaded, coming over to him and taking his hands again.

“W- That, It's, _Distinguish_ might be more accurate... And -really- I can see it any time I want to, any time I bother to, anyway...” He brushed it off, sensing somehow that this was upsetting to him, “Do it all the time, every time I...” his voice died out as he looked down into Aziraphale's very blue eyes.

“Oh Crowley, I'm sorry, all this time I thought it was the one colour you -could- see clearly.”

Though it explained some of his more interesting use of colour, if he had not been thinking to check.

Crowley watched him bring his hand to his bow tie, seemingly unconsciously. Suddenly his eyes seemed to dart through other times and he looked rather self conscious, folding in on himself a little and turning pink. Of course Aziraphale had taken to wearing a lot of blue over the years, and his eyes were blue, so maybe it made him sad that Crowley could not see that without minor miracles. That feeling like inebriated mathematics started to play at him again.

“What made you think that?” he asked him, but it was soft, genuinely curious.

“Well, you had commented on... my eye colour before... So when I started to get the sense there were colours you didn't see so well, I just assumed it might be red or green like most people. I mean your vessel -is- human, more or less.”

“Of course I'd want to know what colour your eyes are...” he blurted before he could bother getting flustered about it.

Then some numbers started to fall into place.

“Wait, angel, then...”

The only colour Aziraphale ever wore other than light neutrals like tan and beige, with the occasional bit of brown, was blue. Crowley had always taken it as a reminder of their differences, of Aziraphale being off-limits in a sense, that he had to consciously modify his vision to see him the way he saw himself, the way everyone else got to take for granted. He had assumed on some level Aziraphale must know and was doing it to remind him of a similar sentiment, or else did not care.

“All this time.” his words leaked out, revealing his thoughts before he was properly done with them.

He reached up to brush the self-conscious hand away and straighten the blue and beige tartan tie. Aziraphale still looked quite upset, until he rested their foreheads together, running his fingers under his lapels to stroke them again.

“I suppose, I should have just asked.” Aziraphale conceded, voice light, almost distracted, with a sad little smile.

Crowley's nose nudged his and he waited to see where he was going to go with this. Predictably enough, he only nuzzled him subtly before pulling away again. He was starting to wonder if these almost-kisses were even conscious.

Crowley's heart was fluttering high and fast and it was far too loud of a sensation.

“You've really been...?” Crowley asked, looking over these clothes and thinking back to every outfit he had ever seen him in.

“Well, I thought it might be nice, if you could see them properly... If they looked nice to you.” he confessed, “Really, who else would I bother dressing for? It's always you keeping me company...” he justified, not sure that really helped.

Crowley seemed to be wearing his bashfulness for him in a deep blush, not meeting his eyes.

“Aziraphale, I-” he cut himself off by biting his lip.

Then Crowley hugged him and he could feel that he was shaking from somewhere in his chest. He would be worried, but this did not seem like distress, not exactly. Then the hands on his lapels changed to a grip and he was walked steadily backwards until he was forced to sit on the couch. Crowley pushed, opening one palm near his shoulder, so his back was forced straight against the cushion, the other on the arm rest for support, and for just a moment he thought he might climb on top of him. After that show of force though he collapsed down next to him and was just very insistent about being held.

Eventually Crowley stopped looking away or hiding from him enough that he could see his eyes were fully yellow again. He hoped that it was just strong emotions this time and not anything unpleasant. Sometimes he could swear it also happened when Crowley was struggling with identifying as anything but the new form he had been given when he fell, as anything beyond being a demon. He loved them though, his most vulnerable inner self showing through, and he always tried to meet them with kindness.

“There you are.” he said fondly, gazing into them.

He had managed not to turn into a snake this time, though clearly embarrassed and emotional, but a very snake-like tongue still tasted the air at him subtly in place of answering.

After a long enough moment Crowley had to look away again.

“How do you do that?” he asked very quietly.

“Do what, dear?”

“Look into my eyes like that... Like you think they're...”

“Beautiful?” he suggested, watching Crowley bring a hand to his chest as if wounded, “You know what the humans say about that don't you, dearest? The eyes being a window to the soul?”

He was not sure that answered the question for him exactly because his eyebrows raised in a pained plea, as if to say that was exactly why he was asking.

“Of course your eyes are beautiful.”

Crowley did not always seem to remember he had eyelids at his disposal in this form. Unfortunately now seemed to be one of the moments it occurred to him that he could close his eyes to hide them, if he really wanted to. Maybe it was more because this was all just too much. Aziraphale adjusted them so he could hold Crowley close, under his chin where he could kiss his forehead.

“You poor thing. You haven't had anyone telling you how lovely you are, have you?” he said, placing another kiss at his hairline.

That was finally too much. A moment and an incoherent noise later, a solid fifty pounds of muscle sat coiled on top of him.

“Oh.” he said realizing he had pushed it too far, “So sorry, my dear.” he said, at least politely averting his corporeal eyes.


	5. Safe-words aren't just for sex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite that Crowley has not given in to kissing him yet, Aziraphale still comes to see that Crowley clearly needs a safe-word.
> 
> Your warning for this one is that I had to take 3 anxiety naps out of sympathy while writing it.
> 
> My empathy response is much stronger than my very weak heart.
> 
> This chapter is mostly about preening.

Aziraphale took a long drink of his tea, letting it flood his throat with warmth just this once, delighted by how pleasant it was to get to it while it was still hot. He did not know how long that would last until he got distracted again. Crowley had gone out for the day so he had decided a fair use of his time with be indulging in some additional research. Crowley was going to make some pretence he had not spent the day going to check on his old neighbour, even now that he was allowed whatever kindnesses he felt like, of course.

He did understand if Crowley felt like he needed the breathing space. He could tell he was overwhelmed by all the sudden attention. After all this time though, and now that they were allowed, he only wanted to do what he could to spoil him, to make sure he did feel loved, and he -somehow- got the sense Crowley -liked- being overwhelmed, he just wish he had a better sense of what exactly was too much, and what exactly Crowley preferred in general. He never seemed to ask for anything any more, now that their lives were tidily wrapped up together.

The book he was looking over detailed some sigils that could be used to modify or add exceptions to the other spell-work it had gone over so far. He had not quite thought of such a thing, but now that the book brought it up, he thought it might be a good idea to not accidentally disguise their energies from each other, if they could go through with this at all.

Then there was the fact that Crowley seemed to keep almost kissing him. Maybe he was too close to it all to remain objective, but he was not quite sure what that was about or what it meant. Of course they loved each other, and of course they could define and redefine the nature of their relationship however it suited them, but it was more a question of why he was not following through on it.

He supposed, of course that whichever angel or demon supplied the energy for the spell would potentially inherently already be an exception to the workings of it, the spell being more to hide a mortal from -other- angels or -other- demons, but he would have to confirm the exacts of the verbiage used to describe it, and in this source it was somewhat ambiguous. He would not want them to unnecessarily be modifying or weakening the protection.

The bulk of the issue was that he did not know why he was pulling back, and there were many possibilities to consider. Crowley might assume it was unwelcome. He might not be aware that he was doing it. He might not be sure it was what he wanted. He might be suffering the impulse as a very casual gesture, as it would be intended in another time, and be too aware of what it could imply now. It might have been a somewhat emotional reaction inherent to the biology he was currently wrapped up in, and be something that he, ultimately, did not actually want.

He ran his finger down the edge of the page as if to turn it in his usual pattern, but realized he was not sure if he had absorbed what was on it yet.

It might have been otherwise instinctive in ways Crowley was not comfortable with. He might be afraid of rejection, or afraid that it would not be rejected. He might be afraid of what it would mean for Aziraphale, that it was too fast or too late. He might still be hurt and upset about the last disagreement they had. He might still be angry about being told it was over between them. He might believe that ultimately such a thing would end up muddying their friendship. He might be afraid because it would feel very much like actually tempting him to something.

The parchment felt dry under his hand and he kept glancing away too much, to try to get to his tea while it was still the perfect temperature. There was nothing he had found that seemed to indicate it would not work on them, if it was safe to begin with, but the second issue was whether the two could be combined. It seemed like whoever initially came up with these spells -had- intended them to be used to keep someone shielded from all angelic and demonic forces, in case they were to suffer some terrible fate in the name of the great plan, to make it seem like they had passed away, or been disposed of, as intended, so they could carry on in peace. It was akin to being able to fake your death, as far as angels and demons would be concerned.

Of course Crowley could also be putting himself up to it because he thought it was what Aziraphale wanted, and that would not do at all. He had been spoiling him with a lot of attention lately and he supposed it was possible that Crowley was interpreting it as romantic or sexual interest. It was not that he was repelled by these things, and certainly he was not sure there was a meaningful distinction -if any-to be made between romance and what they had already established, but he could not possibly let Crowley abide by something just because he thought it was desired of him. He supposed that was what was keeping him from just kissing him to settle it, the possibility that -though seemingly offered- it was not really wanted.

Of course their vessels, as much as they had come to identify with them as their own bodies after all this time, were effectively human bodies. What worked on human flesh should work on them. They did inhabit them in a way very similar to a soul. This was part of why they had so easily been able to swap them. It was literally just a trade. Of course being in Crowley's body he could feel echoes of his energy the entire time, but souls did that, they left echoes on things they had been in contact with for a very long time and bodies were no different. The question was more that the warding had to reach through the flesh and brand itself to the soul, if it had any hope of hiding them especially. Surface level stuff, as far as soul work went, a shield or shell in form, but still.

He just wanted Crowley to feel loved. More than that, he wanted him to feel like he deserved to be loved. He wanted Crowley to be able to see all the good in himself the way he did; well, maybe not just -good- but everything worth loving, being all of him. Crowley did at least seem to see that his punishment and title were unfairly given, but that seemed an issue beside his own judgements of himself.

Still, imbuing the spell-work for each of them would require pushing some energy into each other's souls, or selves, as much as they were like souls in their natural state, effectively having part of themselves -even if it was a small part- occupying the same space as one another, and that worried him for the same reasons it worried him to try to share a vessel. Sharing one body would either be an unfathomable experience, or suicide. They had no way of knowing. It was not like wrapping around him, energy or otherwise, where they got to stay all separate. They had established it was safe, pleasant even, to wrap around each other, but these were two separate things.

Now there were no lines, no sides, no predictable consequences to relating to each other and thinking of each other however they wanted to, not other than what consequences that brought at each other's hands. He did not want to do anything that might hurt him. He also did not want to neglect to do anything that might -by its absence- hurt him. Crowley could carry on just fine without being kissed by him, but if he might enjoy it, that could be nice too. It would probably be very pleasant, actually, if he had any sense of things at all. He could not possibly let himself think of the way love and pleasure would pour out of him -in the event it was something he wanted at all- it would be indecent to do so, not knowing if it was welcome. He sighed.

Aziraphale ran out of books to look over and the two thought processes, previously distractions to each other, converged. He was left with a few cold dregs of tea and settling into a consuming desire to just know what it was exactly that Crowley actually wanted, what he was comfortable with, what he would like, what was safe for them, and what they might be allowed, cosmically speaking. Finding some way to afford them some protection was well and good, but in the aftermath of being freed of expectations, Crowley seemed to be suddenly spiralling in his own internal struggle and Aziraphale was not used to asking him to open up about it. What he was used to was watching him vanish from the world in occasional fits of century long naps and possibly some heavy drinking, and that was making him feel particularly negligent and useless at the moment.

The greatest problem with the collection he was reading was that he was not exactly certain of its source, not in the couple of very exact ways that would be helpful, only that it was very old, ancient, and had proven to be one of very few legitimate sources of usable occult knowledge, little as he had ever had use of that when it had nothing to do with prophesy. Every prominently known name in magic since only seemed to have scratched out some legitimacy or effectiveness for themselves by having been privileged with -what seemed a measured- glance at it, to seed their work. Now with the texts laid out before him, still unsure of how they had even made their way into his collection, what stood out to him most was that they kept referencing a much more personal experimental journal, which did not seem to be among them. Unfortunate.

He would have to ask Crowley. He assumed these books must have been snuck into his collection by him, considering that -while Aziraphale could remember owning them for a long time- he did not actually have any recollection of procuring them, though it would have been thousands of years ago, and his memory was not always as good as he expected it should be.

~*~

Crowley meanwhile, was trying to steadily accept a cup of tea.

“What has that boy done to you?” the elderly lady tisked.

“Hm?” entirely caught off guard.

“That friend of yours that you're always on about. You never get like this unless he's said something.” she sighed, serving herself tea and offering him a slice of coffee cake.

He had thought he had been being rather more stealthy about it than that.

“Nothing.” he -not so much lied as- dismissed.

He had not done anything wrong, but technically speaking he had done a lot. She just raised one eyebrow judgementally and sipped her tea. Really the issue was more that he could not get breathing space to process what he himself kept -almost- doing, mostly because he had not actually wanted any.

Any other time in history -almost any- and it would have been plenty acceptable and socially ambiguous. This day and age it meant something in particular though. In times when it would have been considered a sign of friendship or respect they were not at the point of being able to admit to either of those, either to themselves or in front of prying eyes, not to mention questions of physical safety, and so now they had a very limited history of most kinds of physical contact and the world -in the meantime- had done a lot of work to make a very big deal out of all of it. He could not just kiss him like an old habit, even if that was what it felt like it should be.

These days it was generally -with limited exceptions- considered a communication of ultimately wanting something else, and -to be internally honest- a lot of lines had recently become very blurry all of a sudden and a very large part of him absolutely wanted more of it. He was ready to blame that all on his nature, either in inhabiting a human body or as a demon -punished to experience needs and wants beholden to messy biology, as any other creature did, unable to simply opt out- he was not sure, but he was ready to blame hormones or something.

He could not say this was the first time this had burst to the forefront, more like the second or third, and he was usually better about managing it. He did not need physical affection to be more than at peace with everything they had, he could never -need- anything other than his company. Though it had been recently demonstrated to him both that he enjoyed it and that Aziraphale seemed suddenly very willing to provide it. He was not sure why exactly, what precisely his intentions or thinking were, but one thing was very certain in his mind; though his body may try to insist otherwise, he could not -just- kiss Aziraphale.

“It's complicated.” he finally concluded, helplessly.

“Have you considered talking to him about it?” she asked, betraying a long experience with people and how needlessly complicated things got when you did not simply communicate.

“Noo.” Crowley shrugged with his face and then shook his head in absolute rejection of the idea.

Aziraphale seemed, clearly enough, not to suffer such a compulsion. The last thing he needed to do was talk to him about it, especially when his own feelings about it were still so messy.

“No, of course it's always better to just speculate and stew.” she said in no particular tone.

“So has Jacques been making himself useful?” Crowley changed to subject a bit too loudly.

“Oh, yes, he's been such a dear... But I'm sure already knew that.” she said accusingly.

“No idea what you're talking about.” he said, finally sipping his own tea for the distraction of it.

She gave him a long, knowing look but let it slide. Of course he was not going to admit to having interviewed people to move into his flat explicitly to make sure they would help her, and certainly he would never confirm her suspicions that he either paid the young man or discounted his rent to ensure his compliance. If she had come to suspect there was something angelic in his nature she would only be half right, in a sense, not that she would ever know, but she certainly was not allowed to observe that out loud or to his face, and that she did know. Nice, kind, and love were all four letter words to this one, that much had been clear from the start.

“Well, you just make sure he's treating you fairly, and kindly.” she volunteered her advice for his consideration.

Crowley was beginning to think that treating him too kindly was exactly the problem. All that sweetness, tenderness, and all those kind words crawled under his skin and started demanding ever increasing additions to keep them company, and the more there were the louder it got. He already felt like he was too full of these soft and bright things, but their brightness and warmth threatened to sharpen into flames if he did not abide them.

“Of course.” he said weakly.

~*~

Aziraphale was not worried too much about not hearing from Crowley for the first day because he knew he planned to be away. After a couple days though, given everything that had happened -recently enough, with the apocalypse that never was and such- he was just starting to wonder when he should allow himself to be anxious, what was over protective, or too possessive, or if there was such thing as hyper-vigilance when all of heaven and hell wanted to punish you.

Eventually he found himself at his door again, knocking very softly. He supposed maybe if there was no response he could leave him to his space, but then if he heard nothing at all he thought maybe he should worry more. It occurred to him then that they should set up warding on their buildings if they could, though they should do it at the same time as themselves otherwise it might tip someone off that they were up to something, prematurely. Before he could finish deciding what to do if he did not answer, the door opened.

“Angel!” he exclaimed warmly, tipping his shades up.

He did not usually wear them in his house, but the drill in his hand made it pretty clear why he had them on. It was impossible not to swing right through relieved to cheery being greeted with such enthusiasm. Aziraphale had come here with a purpose more than checking up on him, but he let himself follow him out to the kitchen to see what he was up to.

“Be done in a minute.” he practically chirped.

There was a lot of weather-treated lumber and white plastic piping involved, and it all seemed very vertical. He seemed to be securing wheels onto the bottom of whatever they were. The sound the drill made was horrid, but watching him work was rare and it was over fast. Of course with his very hands- on approach to inconveniencing people, he was not sure why he was surprised he would make other things himself, but it seemed to suggest this was potentially not the kind of fixture you could just purchase. He wheeled them towards and away from the floor length kitchen windows a few times to test them, seeming satisfied.

“Crowley dearest, what is all of this for?”

“Oh you'll see.” he said somewhat cryptically.

Aziraphale sighed. He would let him have this one.

“Well, if you're free for a moment, I ...” he ignored a nervous twitch in his chest, “I brought you something.” he said, taking something out of his pocket, “I just thought that since we didn't need to keep up pretences any more, really it's almost silly I didn't think of this sooner...” he was already rambling.

Crowley was midway through a happy sigh and a curious head tilt, watching him suddenly get all flustered when Aziraphale presented him with a key. He took of his sunglasses entirely.

“Unless that's too ah... Oh.”

Crowley's hand was now gently wrapped around his hand and the key. Then the key was gone and he had suddenly rushed off. He came back a moment after closing a drawer with a key chain in hand. There were two keys on it, one very old looking and one new. He took off the older one and handed the key chain with its shiny new one to him.

“What's this?” he asked, reminding Crowley how thick he was for a clever person.

He did not want to have to say it, or explain why he had it ready. He kept holding it out for a minute, ignoring the heat across his own face, until he saw recognition replace confusion.

“Oh.” he said again, like an answer, softening with a warm smile and slipping it into his pocket.

Crowley could not help but follow him with a little smile of his own.

Aziraphale was not going to examine why there had been two keys, or why one looked like it had been there a very long time, why the new one looked freshly cut, Crowley having recently moved, or why the key chain was a little metal book with a white feather on the front cover and looked old. That was something he would turn over in his hand and his mind in the privacy of his shop the next time he was alone. Their silences were not usually awkward, and this one was not tense exactly, but maybe it was uncomfortably full of potential.

“I was thinking... If we do figure out the warding, at least, we should also consider warding the shop, and your flat.” he said, not just for something to say “Though I'm not sure what I have exactly covers spell-work for the inanimate.”

“Oh I'm sure we can come up with something.” Crowley assured him far too confidently.

“Perhaps... It would all be a bit easier though if I had access to the -ah... supplemental journals, I suppose you could call them, that the books keep referencing.”

“The what? What books now?” he asked, then seeming to remember, “Oh tha- Weeeell, you know...” he seemed suddenly affected enough to be searching through syllables again, “Probably lost to time, really... I mean, if you don't have any idea where they might be.” he finished, with a look Aziraphale could swear was akin to worry, looking at him expectantly.

“Oh, no. Unfortunately not.” he sighed.

Crowley did not seem to think it was nearly unfortunate enough. It seemed odd that he would be the one with hang-ups about looking into their options. Maybe he just knew better and was being polite.

“Oh, shame, that.” he said , shifting his weight and looking around as if for a new topic.

“How is she anyway, your neighbour?” Aziraphale tried to make polite conversation.

Crowley set about putting away the tools and tidying up a bit, leaving these -what he might call racks if pressed- in front of the windows and tucking everything back in place in the room behind them. Of course he had let slip where he was going, of course Aziraphale saw through it at least as easily as anyone else. Being reminded of his visit there only really served to remind him of the preoccupation it had all dragged up. He cleared his throat uncomfortably.

“Fine.” he said, his mouth shrugging for him again.

Aziraphale was smiling at him so fondly.

“Oh come off it, angel.”

“It really is so kind of you.” he was already saying, from the very moment Crowley had acknowledged he knew what he was thinking.

His blushing was deep and tinted the tips of his ears.

“You don't have to deny it any more, you know that, don't you dear?”

Certainly, he was out of excuses to. No more complaints to be had about his side not liking it. He supposed now he was just left facing the fact that he was not comfortable with compliments. He did not know what to say, especially when Aziraphale made his way under his chin.

“So, I suppose, there's no real consequence to my telling you...” he began and Crowley's stomach started flopping around preemptively, “That in all the millennia we've spent on earth, you really are the most considerate person I think I've ever met.” he said, watching him for what his reaction would be.

He looked almost mortified, but in a way that suggested something slightly less unpleasant.

“Perhaps not even -so- deep down.” he pressed further.

He brushed some little spirals of white plastic shavings off of his shirt and Crowley inhaled deeply. Now he could feel his heart beating hard and fast under his hand, which he politely withdrew.

“Dear boy...” he said, too softly, “You look like you could use some fresh air.”

Crowley swallowed audibly and his eyes were doing something interesting. They were not narrowing in a way that told him he was having a hard time processing, but the illusion of white sclera was threatening to dilate out of his eyes. If he was forced to guess, he would propose that maybe he was feeling emotionally vulnerable.

“Crowley?” he asked softly, which prompted him to -very consciously- close them for a moment.

Aziraphale was worried he had pushed something too far.

“Er, uh, yeah.” he said, blinking to clear a bit of extra moisture from his vision, “Stretch our wings or something...” he suggested.

Aziraphale did not think that was a good thing to suggest just now. He had thought that it might be nice to help Crowley with his wings the next time, but he was so sensitive and easily affected -whether he would admit that or not- he thought it might be better to suggest staying some place more comfortable or private, but then, right now, it seemed maybe it would be better not to approach the suggestion that they should find some place comfortable for him to lay down. His mistake was hesitating too long.

“W-wait.” Crowley said, his voice suddenly small in a way that tore at him to hear, “Aziraphale... Don't, please don't think we have to do anything, not...” he seemed utterly distressed now, “Not just because last t...”

“No.” he cut him off before he could spiral any further with that thought, “No, no dear boy, that's not it at all.” he said, slowly taking his hands, “Actually I was going to suggest...”

Now Aziraphale looked away.

“Well, less suggest, more that I was just thinking...”

Crowley was right, for a clever person he felt downright incompetent.

“Well, if I was to... return the favour, I just didn't think out on a roof, especially with all the snow in this cold was really the best place... Especially if you -ah, ended up...” he was not sure how to put this delicately, “Cold blooded? For some reason.” he tried, gently.

Admittedly the snow was quickly melting and it was not all that chilly, he just did not think it would be comfortable.

“For sssssome...” Crowley mumbled weakly, attempting to glare at him because he could feel the blush across his face burn so hotly it burned in his nose like his eyes were about to start tearing.

Truth be told he was already trying very hard not to. Snakes could not blush so uncomfortably, they did not have the sympathetic nervous-system for it.

“I'm sorry, dear. This is too much, isn't it?” he said, anxiety clear in his voice.

He was genuinely concerned he was overdoing something entirely, though he was not sure exactly how to define it; affection maybe. As he stood there in apprehension he watched his pupils slowly start to narrow, as if confirming what he was saying. Still, his hands finally responded and tightened on his.

“Sso... You'd have me some place comfortable?” he asked, his hands now quite firm, trapping him where he was.

Aziraphale felt his own cheeks heat up.

“Yes.” he allowed, a matter-of-fact quirk to his eyebrow.

“So you can preen me?” he asked and it sounded like a leading question.

He was not sure he liked this sudden shift.

“Yes?” he did not sound very certain, “Unless...” he was cut off.

“In case I can't handle it?” he tiled his head, raising his brow, “In case I enjoy it -too- much?”

That sounded a lot more forward out loud than in his head. He tried not to wince himself.

“Well, it -is- all very...” he said, looking at their hands.

“Ssensitive?” he suggested, head tilting the other way, “We've established that haven't we?”

Aziraphale was not looking at him at all now and seemed rather flustered. That helped him feel a bit better. He leaned down to bury his nose in his hair for a change.

“How considerate.” he mumbled, not as disaffected as he intended it to sound.

“Well, if you're -quite done- making your point then...” Aziraphale spoke again after a long minute, “You can tell me whether that's something you'd like.”

He glanced up to see where Crowley currently was between nervous and defensively bold. In response, his throat tried to make sound and his mouth attempted to form words, but none of it was actually coming out as language.

“Oh Crowley, I know you probably think I have no idea what I'm doing, but I promise I'd be careful... Though, you probably don't need my help, I imagine your wings are quite well kept as they are.”

He made an uncertain sound before he could think better of it. Truth be told, every time he had tried to turn his attention to caring for them, he kept getting too preoccupied with the thought of having it done for him. That made it extra sensitive, in somewhat of a new way, and had somehow resulted in him unconsciously avoiding doing it. He could not preen them himself without thinking about Aziraphale touching them, and that had not felt appropriate somehow, so he had just stopped. They were not anywhere near as bad as his had been though.

“You don't ever -have to- though, dear, if that isn't what you want.” he made sure to specify out loud.

“Oh angel, that's not...” he said too quickly, now not sure where to go with it.

He felt like he was making something out of nothing. It was just grooming. He had done the same for him. It seemed profound though. He did not think it was in an angel touching his wings, in and of itself -though that did carry a faint whisper of blasphemy- it was more just Aziraphale, in particular, wanting to. For him there was no necessity in it -as he pointed out- Crowley kept good care of them fine on his own, and he thought maybe that was it; that it was being done, not just as a kind gesture, but explicitly because it would feel good. Of course he wanted it, he was just caught up on how to feel about it, or -that- he had such strong feelings about it. His wings itched, not so metaphorically, under his skin as if with a mind of their own.

“Well then, wh-” Aziraphale began to say, lifting his head to look at him.

Too close. He was too close. Crowley had not thought to pull back and now they were nose to nose again and he had not put them that way. Aziraphale was interrupted when their foreheads were bumped together by the force of his wings unfolding themselves into corporeal space. Crowley hissed, surprised by it himself. At least he had managed not to break anything in his kitchen.

“Oh.” he said in warm surprise, “Oh... They -are- a mess though aren't they?”, he said, suddenly distracted by it, starting to try to circle behind him, “Crowley, you haven't been grooming them?” he admonished, clearly surprised.

He did not know how he could explain himself. Instead, he stepped forward to allow him passage to look at them.

“Yeah w- you know I've been er... Distracted lately... Busy, t's all.”

Aziraphale stopped circling him, coming to rest where he could see him again, near the arch to the living area, and stood back. His demeanour had shifted again, his moment of concerned fussing done with. Now he seemed subdued.

“You know dear, you don't need excuses with me...” Aziraphale said to him, very quietly.

He sounded sad, shrinking into himself a bit.

“Not any more, anyway.” he allowed with a sigh.

Being distracted was not, in some context, inaccurate or dishonest exactly.

Aziraphale watched Crowley try and fail to cover his face with his hand, unable to really stop staring at him to make an effective attempt. He looked so embarrassed, but any syllables that could be spilling out were held in by his palm.

“Unless, you're just shy?” he asked, hopeful.

He really hoped that was all this was, that Crowley liked the attention as much as he seemed to, and was just having a hard time adjusting to accepting it without all the barriers he was used to, barriers imposed on them by their positions. He could not really know for sure, if Crowley was so overwhelmed he would not communicate with him, though. He slowly brushed a hand against his arm, asking to take his wrist, and Crowley loosened his grip on his own face to let him gently pull his hand away. He took it in his own. Crowley easily complied and offered him a little impulsive smile, almost like an admission.

“It's complicated.” he said like a little plea for understanding.

Aziraphale smiled and then let it drop, thankful for the sentiment but dismayed that it did not really answer any of his questions.

“Perhaps we're suffering from something of the same anxiety...” he said after a while, “It's not enough that you would -allow- for something, dear... I'd like to know what you _want_.” he explained.

That said, his wings bursting out on their own accord might be indication enough of what he really wanted, but -being an involuntary reaction- he still wanted to check. He was trying to make this easy for him.

“Does that mean you would -like- me to help you with your wings?” he asked, indicating them taking up a significant amount of space in the kitchen still.

Crowley nodded, his wings rustling themselves shyly.

“And -now- would be preferable over later?”

Another nod, his eyes fully yellow.

“And where would you be most comfortable?”

Crowley wondered for a moment whether he meant physically or emotionally, but it was probably a question of both. Inviting him to his room seemed forward, but he did not think being bent over a couch would feel less compromising or less suggestive. His concern at the moment was controlling what kind of sensitive and enjoyable it was.

Much like a back or neck massage, he imagined it could go either way, but he did not know if he would be able to control how he responded -internally- to Aziraphale touching him anywhere, really. Mostly he may have been getting caught up on whether he should explain that. On the other hand it seemed they had covered that implication already as directly as he knew Aziraphale to be about these things. He was quiet too long.

“Crowley...” Aziraphale started after a very subdued moment, “Are you always like this when it comes to physical intimacy, or am I making you uncomfortable?”

Immediately Crowley tugged his hands closer and kissed his forehead.

He did not know why Aziraphale had to go and put words to things that were so technically correct but loaded with potential implications that made his ears burn. Next he would be calling conversations intercourse.

“Oh.” he said softly.

Not uncomfortable exactly, at least. His grip on his hands was quite solid.

“Well, you always have had a hard time with words...” he observed, mercifully.

For him to be getting this hung up on the question, there must have been something about it that was particularly affecting or that he was anxious about, maybe ashamed of.

Then something seemed to occur to him.

“You -don't- know what it's like, do you, dear boy?” he asked, “To have someone else touch your wings? How you'll respond?”

Crowley shook his head, admitting to it. It was close enough, if blessedly indirect.

“Crowley, dear, I know what you're like with physical affection, and I can imagine how sensitive your wings might be...” he started moving his feet and pulling him along, “It's alright.” he coaxed him, “You'll tell me if it's too much?”

Crowley nodded, unsticking his feet from the floor to follow.

They made it to the middle of the living area before Crowley hesitated again. He did not really want to lay down on the floor, but for a hot moment he gave it sincere consideration.

“There really isn't much room, is there?” he asked after a while, when Crowley had seemed to freeze up again.

He really was an absolute mess, but if offering to hold him still effected him as it did, Aziraphale did not know what he should have expected, giving him a key to the shop and then offering this when he was already off-balance. He let Crowley's feet decide where they would go, curious.

“Probably for the best.” he soothed him when he was slowly pulled in the direction of the hallway.

At least if he laid down he could bury his face and his voice in a pillow. He awkwardly extracted one hand to turn the knob and give the door a tiny push, letting it open. At least now Aziraphale was distracted for a moment.

Crowley's room was as oddly tidy and fashionably spartan as the rest of his flat; an obvious exception made for plants, of course. The one exception was that, while still tidy enough, the bed did at least look like it got slept on. He had no more idea what to expect than what he could have gleaned while helping him move boxes, and what his old flat looked like the night after the apocalypse that never happened.

It was dark, subdued in colour, and yet still gave off the impression of richness, maybe even just in the combination of warm and teal-toned greys. Expensive fabrics, but understated. Now it was slightly less clear to him whether this was an intentional palette chosen for how it would play off of his colouration, or if it was that all these dark colours just looked very similar to him. Immediately his eyes went to a large white fluffy feather that was sitting on his bedside table. He felt himself raising one eyebrow but made a point not to stare at it, or let on he noticed. It must have been shed on his couch the last time he had his wings out. Crowley stood awkwardly between the door and the bed as if waiting for judgement, or instruction.

Aziraphale took off his jacket and set it on the foot of the bed. When he unbuttoned his cuffs and started rolling up his sleeves Crowley decided to take that moment to lay down face first on the bed in something of a hurry.

“Lucky you were wearing a shirt like this.”

Crowley had, in fact, been wearing a men's under shirt, as he had just been working on projects around the house, and his wings had taken convenient advantage of the very large arm holes and narrow back, so there was no fabric caught in any kind of liminal space. It would also be convenient enough -by some perspective- to nudge it out of the way of whatever feathers and muscles it may obstruct. Not that the shirt would be the same after this.

He did not know by what logic he had lead himself willingly into this mess. His brain had felt fuzzy for -what felt like- a good hour now, and he found himself suddenly needing to contend with Aziraphale's weight shifting next to him on his bed. That was something he had not processed should mean anything to him in a very long time. He needed to focus on breathing.

“Crowley dear, are you alright?” he waited until he got a response.

Crowley eventually looked over his shoulder for him, finding him on the furthest side, sitting patiently. He held out his hand, waiting to be offered his wing. When he settled his primaries across his lap he stilled them with his hands slowly.

“There, that's not so bad.” he said, and Crowley actually seemed to calm slightly.

He was right, the little tickling sensation of having his primaries shifted around was not too much of anything. It was nice, but after a few long minutes of rustling gently in his feathers, he started to get the sense it was actually it risk of putting him to sleep. It was already making his nerves crawl, sure, but he could not actually feel his hand at all, until he got to straightening the base of a feather, and then it was light, incidental touches. It was a lot like stretching a hundred little sore muscles and scratching a thousand tiny itches. He was almost asleep when he spoke again.

“Has it really been bothering you all this time?” he asked, sounding only mostly like he was trying to make conversation, “The vest, I mean.”

“What? Noo.” Crowley came alive somewhat to answer.

Aziraphale did not look convinced.

“It's grown on me, really.” he admitted, “T's charming, in it's own way...” he yawned against the pillow, “I just never quite understood why... Why not just fix them?”

Aziraphale could have actually been found in a new style of clothing more often than not right up until within these last thousand years or so. Then, at some point, it had seemed he settled on something he liked that never seemed too far out of date to be plausible, thanks to fashion cycles.

“Well, mostly, it just happens slowly enough.” he moved on to a secondary, “You know, something starts in a seam, in a place, an amount that only you would notice...”

“And once you realize it's gone beyond that?”

“Well, I'm not sure it really matters anyway, and we aren't supposed to be using frivolous miracles on ourselves, besides.” he said, slowly checking over each secondary as he went.

“You could have asked me.” he said offhandedly, almost distracted.

“And have it show up on your record that you've been fixing my suits?”

“They wouldn't have to know they were yours.” he said, sounding more cheery than the conversation justified.

“They'd have figured it out eventually.” he defended, “Eventually, it would start to look like you were taking care of me.” he moved on to the next feather, “... Suits that outdated that never fell apart or looked old.”

That much was fair. It had taken all of fixing his vest and straightening out his feathers to get uncomfortably close to the image in his dream.

“I'm just... Just say-pfft. W-pfft,” his wing twitched a little spastically, “Wai-Aziraphhh-”.

Aziraphale was taking paranoid stock of him for a minute, worried he had hurt him, or done something he should not have. Red and shaking could mean a lot of things.

“Please...” he chocked out, finally giving away it was definitely laughter.

He had just gotten to where the secondaries blended into the scapulars at the joint, and Crowley was suddenly trying very hard not to fold his whole wing aggressively into him, or else knock him off the bed entirely. A bird the size and weight of a swan, even a large goose, had enough strength in its wing to beat a full grown man into a coma, or worse. Their wings were attached to complex muscle structures over their whole chest and back and were strong enough to heft their human bodies through the air. Human bodies were not really designed for flight, they were heavy and awkward and did not seem to have a single hollow bone. Their wings were something else entirely, and Aziraphale -until he thought to change it- currently had the strength and constitution of a man of his description.

“Oh!” he said, redoubling his effort not to move his hand, though it seemed a bit too late, “Oh... You didn't tell me you were ticklish...”

“I'm not.” he squeaked in protest.

“Bit of a firmer hand then?” he asked, ignoring him.

He sunk his fingers in between the feathers enough to press firmly against the skin and then stayed very still. Crowley took a deep breath. It did help, it was settling the nerves and helping him to stop twitching.

“I've never been ticklish before. I don't know what you did.” Crowley said with a perfectly straight face as if he honestly believed it was Aziraphale's doing.

“I thought you said no one else had touched your wings.” he argued.

“They haven't.”

“Well then how would you know?” he asked and Crowley just stared at him.

“Are you trying to imply that -anyone- is only ticklish when it's someone else?”

“Well, dear boy, it isn't very effective when you try to tickle yourself is it?”

Crowley had not considered that. No one was really in the habit of trying to tickle him. He supposed he had assumed demons were not ticklish, but then, no one really went around trying to tickle demons. At least it was not the reaction he was afraid of having to this.

“That's better though, dear?” he asked, warm fingertips holding the fleshy edge of his wing firmly.

Crowley did not feel like he was going to accidentally throw him into the far wall any more, so he nodded.

“That one.”, he hissed, letting his wing twitch.

Unfortunately, Aziraphale moved with him so it did not pull.

“No, no, pull that one.” he specified, spreading his wing out a bit more.

“This one.” he asked, though testing at it was enough to feel it let go.

He pulled it out the rest of the way. There did not seem much wrong with it, except that it was old. He set it aside next to them, and rubbed gently at the pore it came from.

Crowley sighed in contentment, ruffling his feathers slightly. It did actually help his nerves crawl less, these firmer touches, and the warmth of it was not the disastrous playing on his nerves he feared it could be.

“What were you saying then, dear?” Aziraphale asked and he had to try to spin himself backwards through the last few minutes.

“Er...”

“About the vest?” he prompted.

“Oh, yeah, I was just saying how uh...” he caught himself up, “How, well, how that's kind of the problem with your old lot, isn't it? If you're fond of it, and if you're going to wear it, then maybe it's worth keeping... nice.”

“Well, we're meant to be helping humanity, we wouldn't want to waste miracles on silly things...” he was interrupted.

“Do you -really- think the others even actually believe that? You haven't seen how they dress? How everything is always sterile, pristine and perfect? You don't think they maintain themselves, their clothes, with miracles?”

“Well, that's not really any of my...”

“Aziraphale.” he said firmly, making a point to look back at him.

He could feel aggressive love coiling itself tightly around him. This was how he knew it was safe to wrap around each other, if it remained unobtrusive, because Crowley could not feel when he was doing this, and had thus been doing it progressively from the beginning. Tentatively and slowly returning it did not seem to harm him either, despite whatever paranoia he had been entertaining about it. There was not really any risk from other angels sensing his love now, and they would hardly think that whatever Crowley projected was actually coming from a demon.

“Angel, you aren't a waste of miracles... You -do- get that right?”

In all fairness, he had not actually thought about it quite like that.

“Of course.” he defended.

He was not sure he liked what Crowley was accusing him of, but -given his own history of judgements- he could hardly complain. Of course it was probably more that he just did not entirely mind things showing their age and history. The vest was at least as charming to him old as it was new, and he was not really dressing for anyone, at least not anyone other than the two of them. That was all a little besides the point at the moment.

“I see.” he said, smiling and blushing to himself.

Crowley and his new lack of faith that he was not a ticklish person did not like the look of Aziraphale looking too amused or visibly coming to any kind of conclusions.

“Hm?” he prompted him to explain.

“You're concerned for me.” he said, smiling at the feathers he was working through in his hand.

Crowley shook his head, but he ignored that.

“You're concerned for my emotional well-being.” he said.

Crowley shook his head more, like that could not possibly be right. Aziraphale was now carefully running his fingers through scapulars over the wing joint to straighten them, it was warm and sensitive and it certainly made his nerves crawl, but it was more relaxing than anything. Absurdly distracting though.

“Nah...” he said, not really sure why he was protesting.

“You are. You don't have to deny it. It's very sweet of you.”

Crowley's protests and his whole voice, dried up in his throat.

“You've always somehow managed to be the more considerate of us.”

What Aziraphale was doing had not changed, but those words dripped through him, and each little crawling nerve turned into a cascading and pleasant chill. If he had to pick a word for it, subduing.

“Angel...” he whined.

“Certainly, you've always been very observant, I'm just not sure I ever could have expected you would use it to be so attentive.”

That made it worse. Better. Much worse.

“Nk... Angel please...” his voice pinched.

He did not seem to feel himself smothering him with a face full of affection so thick he felt like it made the air solid. Really, he wanted to ask him about that, about his seeming inability to sense love, and what about it might have allowed for the question he had asked the other night, if it had come across in his body language, or if there was some chance he had actually felt it.

“You don't even seem to have a sense of how obviously loving you are... Poor thing...” he said, almost to himself.

When they made their wings fully corporeal, it was not just the wings themselves, it was an entire bone and muscle structure to go with it, mostly in muscle over their ribs and chest, a change in their breastbone to accommodate it, an extra set of something like shoulder-blades down their back. It was one of these extra back bones he put his palm gently against now to straighten the feathers underneath, speaking softly the whole time.

Crowley's voice broke into a breathless hiss.

Crowley, after a strangled sound, had gone still and quiet, prompting him to stop what he was doing, and give a nervous glance to his wing which had stretched out to brush the far wall and was vibrating as if being held back from something. The last thing he wanted was to trigger some involuntary reaction out of one of them. The last thing they needed was for one of them to get hit.

The last thing Crowley needed was for him to start cooing compliments and affection at him while touching his wing like that. That was one loaded second away from changing the entire tone of this interaction irrecoverably. The last drag through the feathers on the underside, in combination with is words, had sent nerves cascading over the front of his hip.

In a flat second this had gone from his usual idle protest to something Aziraphale was not sure about. He pulled his hands back slowly and watched that wing closely. They both scrunched themselves in very tightly and he shifted out of the way to let them. He was going to ask if he should stop or even leave, but then that wing opened out behind them and pressed him down to the mattress. Crowley had not moved. He was just pinned down flat next to him, unable to lift his arms. He waited patiently.

“Crowley?” he asked, somewhere between concern and questioning if this was entirely necessary.

He could abide being flattened gently to keep him from moving, but it was going on a solid minute now and he was starting to worry.

“Is it...” he tried to ask what was wrong, but very quickly found that continuing to speak would only get him a mouthful of alula feathers.

A glance over the wing told him that Crowley was not just bright red, but that this extended to his lower back, under the edge of his shirt. Crowley eventually glanced at him under the edge of his wing.

“I need you to stop.” he said very slowly, watching his eyes dart to the other wing like an involuntary question, “No, not the... not with the feathers...” he said, relatively certain he could handle that, “I need you to stop talking.”

He lifted his wing a bit, watching him sigh and tilt his head, almost speak and then deliberate visibly.

“You can ask questions just...”

The warmth and massaging he could take. Even the crawling in his nerves and the indulgence of it he could handle, he could keep the tone of it where he needed to, control in what way it was affecting his nerves. The affection burning at his ears the entire time, that was a whole separate equation. His voice had been going right down his spine. Little snakes, stripped from their gears kept turning themselves belly up to play dead, but all the little angel lights kept telling them how that was a terribly morbid way to joke, just heartbreaking, and how lovely their bellies were.

“Yes, well, I suppose you never have been able to take a compliment...” he sighed.

“Oh this is hardly the same...” he quipped back agitatedly.

“I'm sorry.” he said, very sincerely, “Should I... let you be?” he asked, shrinking away from the aggression in a way that suggested he was more concerned for Crowley than actually afraid of anything.

Offering to step back or give him space was being met with enough of an outpouring of affection that he would assume that was what Crowley wanted, and yet he was pressed in place where he was.

“Crowley dear, can you tell me what I did wrong?” he asked, so gently and earnestly it ate at him.

Wrong was not the issue. Obliviousness might have been.

“Angel...” he sighed deeply, distressed at this point that he still could not tell if he needed to say something or if Aziraphale was entirely aware of the issue, and did not see why it was a problem.

He deflated back into the pillow.

“You can't just go around... Holding people down and playing with their nerves and -then- telling them h-how...” he tried to explain, but had to stop, hearing the words himself was too much.

When he put it as directly as that, it seemed obvious.

“Oh!”

Crowley flinched, too aware of his sudden understanding. If it was clicking now, it had not before.

“It's too much...” he said weakly.

He wanted to explain that he was just trying to stay safely away from that line. His voice had abandoned him for a moment.

“Oh, of course...” he said, oddly accepting, “I'm sorry, I should have realized...”

At least he looked sympathetic more than judgmental.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

Even that made his heart flutter, twisting in useless knots. Of course his first concern was for Crowley, despite having asked, and checked repeatedly, and let him direct them at every turn, his concern was -still- somehow that he was overstepping a boundary. Crowley nodded, desperately wanting him to know he had not done anything wrong.

“ _It's not._..” he tried to keep him from apologizing any more, but his voice had turned to hissing for the moment.

“Oh you poor thing... I didn't mean to be so forward.” he went on apologizing, “I'm terribly sorry, I didn't think... and I just assumed that if anything was really too much you'd just...” he tried to gesture as much as he could.

Crowley muttered something into the pillow.

“What did you say, dear?”

“...You know I can't -always- do that.” he confessed, weakly, because he had to, barely glancing at him.

He could not just keep letting him think that so long as he was not a snake everything was fine, not if this was going to come up again.

“Oh?”

It was fair that him turning into a snake had become his way of communicating that things were too much, and they had not discussed it beyond that. Certainly in almost any circumstance that understanding was more than adequate. He had not really thought they needed to talk about it more than that, he trusted Aziraphale absolutely with his boundaries. He saw the necessity in it now though, because it was not Aziraphale who was the problem, of course not. There were certain circumstances under which it would not do to just turn into a snake any time he got too stressed or started to feel upset or flustered. He did not want to have to explain that.

He was not ready to explain why he could not, under what circumstances he had to condition himself out of it to do his work, why it was a breath away from being a problem now, what sordid things he used to have to put himself through or why -in particular- he had to stop. They were not there yet. He was not there yet. There were entire other conversations that had to come first. He was not really used to there being things that they could not just talk about.

Crowley looked utterly lost and even a little devastated. His big golden eyes were all watery and he was a shade of red that usually indicated an inability to speak.

“Oh dear, I'm sorry. Of course, it's too much. It doesn't matter why. It's alright.” he assured him, “I don't want to force you to talk about anything.” he said gently, still only able to see Crowley's eyes over the edge of his pillow.

He wiggled up, next to him at the headboard, very slowly, the wing letting him. He stroked his hair and Crowley moved into it. He wiggled a bit closer.

“I'm not... Well, I'm not sure I can really stand to be told about things that upset you so much, I just...” he sighed deeply and kissed his forehead, “I just want to understand.” he said, staying at his hairline.

“When you're ready, of course.” he added after a minute, pulling back to check on him.

Crowley caught his hand and made it vanish into the pillow clutched under his chin.

“I suppose that means you don't want me to go?”

He squeezed his hand gently, now having devolved into fully hiding in the pillow. Aziraphale adjusted so he could stroke his hair with his other hand.

“This isn't always a problem, is it?” he asked with some concern.

Certainly he spent more than enough time holding him and calling him all sorts of things, but Crowley shook his head against the pillow.

“Just when I'm touching your wings?”

He nodded. Then he curled into himself in the opposite direction, still taking his hand with him.

“I'm sorry, angel, I should have tried harder to explain...” he lamented, his voice getting progressively more unstable.

He had barely processed this being an issue himself if he was honest. He could not keep denying it was an issue altogether, not now. He would be kicking himself for letting it come up like this, but he also had to acknowledge he would have never brought it up otherwise.

“Oh dear, no, no you've been communicating quite enough...” he insisted.

Certainly turning into a snake and playing dead for a solid minute was a very strong communication of something. All the times he seemed to be pleading with him to understand, and he -had- backed off, but this potential implication of it had all just gone over his head. Of course Crowley had tried to confess that he turned into a snake when he was too emotionally overwhelmed, and Aziraphale had done his best to always stop short of it happening, just short, to ease off before it got to that point, but maybe that was not enough. He had considered it a good sign that he had been turning into a snake far less often, but maybe he was misreading that too.

If this was not exactly what Aziraphale was concerned might happen, he did not know what to make of the conversation they had about it earlier; other than maybe some implication that he was just such a train wreck of a person that he could not handle any kind of physical contact without falling to pieces. He was not sure which was worse, really.

“Tell me the possibility had occurred to you...” Crowley's voice betrayed him to beg.

“Oh, of course it did.” he defended, he was not -that- oblivious, “...In theory.” he amended, “I didn't really expect it to actually come up.” he said, voice fading.

Of course they both realized that was absurd, now. These were affecting things that were proven to have a profound effect on Crowley in particular. It was just that Crowley -oddly enough- had never given any indication to him that he, or anyone, should be concerned about actually causing this kind of reaction. Of course someone he loved and trusted handling him in all the ways that effected him most was at risk of brushing up against this at some point. Aziraphale was not sure why he needed this pointed out to him.

“Perhaps I do take it too much for granted that I can just opt out of these things.”

If his body had any kind of inconvenient reaction to anything he could just tell it to stop, or ignore it without discomfort or consequence. Thinking back, he realized that Crowley had already confessed it did not work that way for him. That implication seemed clear to him now, that part of Crowley's curse was to feel everything as profoundly and viscerally -as involuntarily- as a mortal would. That did not really leave room to just casually opt out of the human experience.

What Crowley did not want was any momentary desire for anything to ever end up making anything about their relationship with each other less comfortable. He did not want pressure, or obligation, or regrets. Bodies and hormones could scream and beg, they could tell lies, they could convince you to rationalize your way into things, out of things, and -for all he believed people could behave reasonably and lovingly with them- he was not sure either of them needed to be making space for all of that in what they already had, especially not with all his baggage. Aziraphale had never given any indication he was interested in anything of the like, and certainly not with him. He could just opt out of it and seemed more comfortable with that.

There was nothing wrong with everything they had, not a single thing lacking. He did not ever want it to change, no matter what his hormones tried to convince him was possible. Everything over the past few months was more than he could ask for and he hated that his body had anything to say about it. He had been trying to avoid this, fretting it without even quite acknowledging it. Maybe he would have to just miracle the worst of it away and live with the rest. He did not think that he would be able to get away with taking long naps until the feeling passed, not now.

Now he had to take responsibility for what he was feeling and try to keep it to himself. Unfortunately, inhabiting flesh meant that cognitive emotions became physical feelings at the whims of his body, like sadness, arousal, or embarrassment, and those could be expressed to people and garner responses that came with feelings of their own, and then -the worst trick of biology- those feelings in turn had to go and affect the way he thought and felt about things on a cognitive level. It was a rotten cycle and his body needed to stop.

“No, angel, this is my fault, this is... I'm not like you, I'm the one who had to go and t-”

Aziraphale did not have to hear the rest to know where his obvious collapse of mood had taken him.

“Dear boy, don't you dare.” he cut him off coolly and Crowley's voice died again.

“This is a perfectly reasonable reaction for you to have.” he said almost as sternly.

He watched Crowley's brow stitch together.

“Well, I can hardly blame you. For -months- now, I've been... Well, I've been -relentless- haven't I?” he asked, “Feeding you every last bit of affection you've allowed for... Even when it leaves you an absolute mess... Of course it -should- have occurred to me...”

Crowley wanted to say something before he talked himself into the wrong conclusion, but he did not know what he could say, or if his voice would let him.

“Here I've been holding you and touching you, kissing you and telling you how lovely you are, even how much I love you...”

Crowley squeezed his hand. He did not want him to stop doing any of those things. None of those things had to have anything to do with this. None of those things had been forced on him, they were kind offers.

“That's not the same, and you asked... You keep asking, you don't have to... Please... Not just because I've...”

“No, no...” Aziraphale shushed him, kissing his hair again, “That's hardly my point.” he assured him, holding his hand back nearly as tightly.

He could not, in good conscience, try to hold his hand back with the same force.

“Yes, I made sure it was welcome, and yes I -certainly- made sure you enjoyed the attention... But I never actually asked what any of it -meant- to you, did I?”

The nature of their relationship had largely taken shape and ingrained itself during a time when they were actively a danger to each other and often under strict watch. In all their sudden freedom to express themselves, it had not yet felt like they needed to discuss it. He supposed making sure they were on exactly the same page, in explicit terms, was not something they were in the habit of doing, and maybe that needed to change.

“Doesn't have to mean anything.” Crowley defended quietly, still not looking up at him.

“Of course it doesn't -have- to.” he assured him sincerely, “But I never gave you much of a chance to explain if it did... Or if you wanted it to.”

“You're not offended?” Crowley glanced up at him.

That at least was a small mercy. He seemed to be acting like his own comfort with it was assumed and like he was -again- most concerned for Crowley.

“Heaven's, no.” he said very automatically, “Oh but I've been just torturing you haven't I?” he said, reconsidering what everything looked like without the hard line he assumed was there.

Everything he had said to the plants in front of him was hardly even the bulk of it, but that alone made him wince to himself.

“I'm sorry.” he said, kissing his hair again gently.

Crowley struggled with another of those impulses to kiss him, quietly, face first into his pillow.

“Wasn't really a problem before today.” he muttered into down and cotton.

At least not recently, not like this, not that he seemed to be entirely buying it anyway. He still was not sure how it was Aziraphale apologizing for this.

“Of course not.” he said, but it sounded patronizing.

“Well if it's so obvious I wouldn't be able to help but... fall into your arms, then why are you so surprised?”

It would have been far easier to be threatened by the agitation in his tone if he was not so clearly mortified himself, even taking into account two angel sized wings facing him against a headboard.

“Well, I thought that if it was going to come up with -me- that it... Would have, already...” he said.

Crowley made a sound like a wheeze, but he seemed to miss it. He was really actually hearing with his own ears that Aziraphale thought that it being him would -avoid- the issue instead of being the cause of it.

“But it seems obvious now, with how sensitive you are to being touched, and how, um...” he stopped and made a face.

“How...?” Crowley asked him, clearly lacking any sense, and trying to keep up with this logic that cut Aziraphale out of the equation.

“Well how you are with compliments it seems obvious. That's all.”

“What's all?” he asked, clearly not willing to let this go.

Aziraphale was sure this was intended to be one of those questions intended to make him regret whatever he had been about to say, but he did not know how to tell Crowley that he was not going to be the one who would find his choice of words regrettable. Surely, Crowley could not admit to everything he just had, and not know where Aziraphale was going with that. He did not want to be the one to have to point this out to him just then.

“Crowley, please.” he said, trying to save him.

“No, angel, I want to know what's so obvious about me, what makes me so clearly vulnerable to your _charm_...”

Aziraphale was not sure that was true. At least this new line of conversation had him semi-functional seeming again. Subject as that was to change.

“This hardly seems like a good time... Really, I don't know what I was... I can't...” he protested.

“Angel.”

Aziraphale sighed. He had tried to spare him.

“Well, stands to reason don't you think? That you might have a- ah, praise kink...” he said, for lack of a better term, wincing.

The words went straight to his lungs.

“Praise kink?” Crowley repeated in breathless offence, eyebrows shooting up, “Angel, you make it sound like...” he went on, voice actually shaking, “...like I like to be told how good I'm doing when-” his voice died in a desperate huff of breath.

Then he was back face-first into the pillow. He could not the least bit handle whatever it was Aziraphale's eyebrow just did.

He could not go on talking because the suggestion of it alone was too much, and -as his mind made involuntary work of playing it out, the most momentary intrusive thought- he was suddenly coming to the realization that it was probably true, in any sense. He wondered if they could actually be discorporated by embarrassment.

The hand in his hair was calm and steady, placating, and not at all judgemental, and that was the only thing saving him.

It was so much more involved than that though, this was not shallow or hollow praise intended to stroke some fetish in a limited context -as sweetly given as that would be- this was so much more personal and substantial than that and it dug so much deeper. These were sincere compliments about him as a person that were given for no reason other than that Aziraphale felt they were true. He was not even going to examine Aziraphale's growing tendency to reduce profoundly emotional things to some kind of kink. The fact that he raised his eyebrow a little as if to say he considered that possibility a foregone conclusion, was like a shot to the gut.

“So sorry dear, I didn't mean to embarrass you.” he said very softly against his hair.

Crowley's grip tightened on his hand, but he was otherwise unresponsive. Still no turning into a snake, even though he clearly seemed to need to, if ever such a thing could be a need.

“Does it help if I stroke your hair.?” he checked and Crowley nodded.

He spent too many long moments asking him very gently what he was comfortable with.

“T's all fine, angel, really, just...” he turned red before he could say it.

“...Just don't compliment you while touching you anywhere sensitive?” he confirmed.

Crowley nodded from the pillow again. He could not believe himself or how this had come up.

So far, Aziraphale knew that to involve parts of his wings. He would ask what else was off limits, but he did not want to force him to tell him everything that was that kind of sensitive and he was not entirely sure Crowley wholly knew. That was something they would have to unpack later.

“Well,” he said eventually, “If you don't want me to leave, or stop, and we aren't just going to rely on you changing shape, to know when something is too much...”

Crowley seemed to be positively dying of hot embarrassment, but he was not about to go dragging this all back up later, or risk overstepping something in the interim.

“We're going to have to find some other way for you to tell me.”

Crowley glared at him.

“Unless, you'd prefer if I just stop any time you start to turn red? Or stop using coherent words?” his tone was earnest, but his eyebrow said something else.

He glared at him only slightly more. That was a cruel threat and one he could not possibly mean to follow through on. He collapsed into the pillow. Forcing him to admit he liked being overwhelmed with affection might have been necessary, given the context, but it felt like he was punishing him for something.

“No.” he said, muffled but unmistakable.

“Oh, but you are prone to idle protest... And you do seem to get rather... non-verbal.” he said, concern clear and obviously thinking out loud.

Crowley whined into the pillow.

“I think I can manage one word, angel.” he said, very defensively.

He was pretty sure he could handle that. What he could not handle was Aziraphale clearly knowing what a safe-word was, calling it that, or walking him through picking one.

“Oh? Have something in mind then?” he asked as if it was nothing, his eyebrow saying everything so he did not need to.

Crowley did not already have a safe-word, and he did not need a safe-word because at this rate he would be dead first; gutted by the point of an angel's eyebrow.

“Something you'd never normally say?”

“Oh, for heaven's sake, Aziraphale...” Crowley almost cried into the pillow.

He knew without looking that his eyebrow had only climbed higher in response. When he finally did wiggle himself back out of the pillow though, he was all warm smiles and forehead kisses.

“There. That wasn't so hard, was it?” he cooed gently.

Of course using his full name had become something of a sign he was serious about something, but he hardly thought it would be appropriate. Then he realized what he had said.

“Heaven?” he asked, feeling the dysphoric twinge on his tongue that time.

“We should probably deal with the other wing later.” Aziraphale suggested.

It vibrated shyly for a moment at his back. His nerves were, obviously enough, already on end.

“Would you like to nap for a bit, dearest?”

It was as if Aziraphale knew that naps were how he dealt most naturally with anxiety. He nodded.

“Should I?” he asked, but a wing was already holding him back down firmly, and Crowley had hardly loosened his grip on his hand.


	6. Last night on earth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I split the difference on all the versions so some things are a bit ambiguous... particularly the ride back to his flat. Sorry about that. You might even notice the influence of the radio show. I labelled it with both versions because they're all floating around in my head as part of cannon, and I'm not going to be any good at keeping them separate anyway.
> 
> I did keep my promise, believe it or not, this is -their- trauma [not mine, for the record] and it has a happy ending. I am now working with a very vague outline of roughly 26 chapters, so I guess I had better get on that... and we'll see how it goes.
> 
> There is of course a flashback to the night of the apocawasn't, part way through, hence the title.
> 
> This chapter's keyword is... Tender.
> 
> I guess the chapter's warning would be that it discusses repression and memory loss, or disassociation of a kind.

Aziraphale was not sure what time it was. He was not even sure if he had fallen asleep at any point or not. These were such inconsequentially small amounts of time, hours, days, and this was as good a way to spend them as any. Crowley had progressively curled up to him until he was sleeping on his chest and absolutely burrowed into a mess of plush duvets that was slowly devouring them both. His wings were still draped across them and far warmer than he expected, especially now that it was creeping ever so slowly towards spring. His only regret was having not brought along something to read.

He had all the time in the world to look around now though, from where he was. There were books around, but they all seemed the kind of meandering fiction that Crowley used to try to sleep sometimes, not research, historical records and scattered hints in texts he had a head for at the moment. There were bedside tables but they were mostly empty, though he did not know what was in their drawers and was not going to check. There were plants here too, ones he had never seen before, but also understated, as if defying any kind of description other than being what you might expect from them just being called a house-plant. They were mostly tall.

He was not sure what he was expecting, but this was a level of simple comfort beyond any possible suspicion. There were no strange accessories, not a hint of chafing anywhere on the -very solid- headboard, not that this really surprised him. Pyjamas in simple black satin lay on the edge of the bed, threatening to slide off. There was barely even anything personal, at least visible, as if it really was just a room to store his clothes and sleep in sometimes. Aziraphale could hardly criticize this, considering he used his room for less, and to hide more. He supposed there was some personality in the unnecessary amount of pillows. He did appreciate being able to prop himself up however was most comfortable though.

The one exception to all of this was the feather on the bedside table. He recognized it, like you would recognize something exponentially more distinctive than your own hair. It stood out as if glowing in a room that was so subdued. The blackout curtains made sense, after all, who would want something silly like dawn happening to wake you up from a good sleep, even if that meant having no sense of the passing of time. A couple of dark feathers now sat next to him and he was suffering his own impulses to just quietly take them when he left. He could think of plenty of uses for nice feathers like that.

A whole sea of them shifted at him as Crowley stirred. He wondered how aware he was exactly that for a solid number of hours, at least, he had been trapped under a very large and very affectionate winged snake. At least him changing back seemed to indicate he was feeling less overwhelmed and let him be aware of when he was blinking awake at him. Crowley was all golden yellow eyes, blushing and stretching and he could not help but smile. No one else in the world got to see Crowley how he really was, and certainly not like this.

“I must be the luckiest person in all of God's creation.”

Of course that was what he would wake up to, bright blue and curious eyes looking at him so fondly, a smile with all the warmth in the world that only moved to say something like that. It was a strong start to the day, really, that he would wake up and immediately have to hide behind a pillow. He shoved the pillow at Aziraphale instead.

“Keep that up and you'll never get to the other wing...” he grumbled, not quite sure he wanted him to hear it.

Aziraphale leaned down and Crowley's heart stopped until he felt him kiss his forehead. He nodded towards the other wing.

“At this rate, I'll have to do the first one over again.” he said, indicating how ruffled they looked after being out all night.

Crowley rustled his feathers back into place, making the difference between the two that much more visible again. Aziraphale was not so subtly eyeing the messy one, much in the same way you might eye something small and helpless in an unfortunate circumstance; like a small kitten that needed a bath.

“Are you hungry at all dear?” he asked sweetly.

“Not yet really, but we could get something for breakfast.”

He was already giving the door a disappointed look, despite moving to get up, and it hurt to see.

“I didn't ask if we could eat.” he specified softly, “I asked if you were hungry yet.” he said, pulling him gently back down.

If Aziraphale kept tipping his chin to look at him whenever he found it convenient, and not kissing him, Crowley was sincerely considering the logistics of pinning him to the headboard without it being overtly sexual.

Crowley liked to think of himself as someone who could make anyone regret asking for anything. It was really simple actually. The plain fact was that most people were not actually self-aware enough to know what it was they really wanted, and humans had made an elaborate culture around convincing people to tie vague notions of happiness and success unequivocally to largely unrelated -and generally material- things, sometimes sex. Making someone regret a wish or request was often as simple as actually just granting it in earnest, only to watch them realize how miserable they were, or how incapable they are of handling it.

Unfortunately, he seemed -most- apt at doing this to himself. This was not the worst example of it by far, almost the opposite actually, but he had spent more time than he could admit wanting nothing more than Aziraphale's undivided attention all to himself, had even directly requested on more than one occasion that they just run off together. It was not that he wanted to take any of that back, but it was repeatedly re-astounding him just how much he had failed to estimate what it would be like to actually have all that loving attention turned freely and unabashedly towards him in almost every moment.

Aziraphale himself seemed to have suffered some recent motivation to become an increasingly conscientious and attentive companion. Up until now he could be frustratingly aloof, and his fears of being negligent were not wholly unfounded, as sometimes it seemed being able to opt out of discomfort and distress was a disadvantage to him always being as empathetic as he wanted to be. Now though, he seemed to finally be able to focus on fulfilling his heart's desire to be the most actively and meaningfully loving person he could be, and his choice for directing all of that was at Crowley.

Currently Crowley was stuck with a very human heart, in a very human body, having more angelic proportions of love poured out at him than he ever thought possible. If people could die of a broken heart, surely they could die of one that was too full, so -as much as he had considered suggesting to solve many of their problems by just moving away together somewhere- he was hesitant to start suggesting that again until giving himself a moment to adjust. Every exhale felt like having drunk a very heady wine feeling the alcohol seeping out of his lungs, thick as smoke across his tongue on every breath. Every inhale felt -not unpleasantly- like the cleanest and freshest lungful of air that was too thin when his mind was already oxygen starved. Something in him was going to burst and he would be in serious trouble without his heart or lungs.

“Would you like me to preen that one, or would you rather be held?” Aziraphale's voice hummed through the warm cotton against his ear.

Usually when people who were not so naturally inclined, and were not entirely practised at reading people, tried to suddenly outdo themselves with personal affection, they could be rather clumsy and ham-fisted about it, often accidentally stepping over boundaries in their haste to perform what they assumed should be wanted of them, but Aziraphale had always been a cautious person, and it was very clear he valued Crowley's comfort above all else. He did not push to do things for him with any disregard for whether they were welcome, just because he saw it as a kindness. He did not already have some pre-formed notion of what Crowley wanted or expected of him that existed outside of what Crowley was expressly stating, even after six thousand years. There was, in short, nothing self-serving in the way he had started being so carefully attentive, and -though it was something that must take attention and effort to change over to- he was putting in all of the work, unprompted. This suited Aziraphale like nothing he had ever seen. This suited both of them so disastrously well.

This time Crowley got as far as grabbing his dress-shirt aggressively and giving him a very stern and flustered look before sinking back against his chest. Aziraphale could at least pretend to be nervous, instead of giving him that perfectly heated cold glance that said he was curiously waiting to see where he was going to go with it all. Even if he did want to kiss him, that would make it impossible. He almost missed the little breath that sounded like discomfort.

“I'm sorry, I don't know what's w-” he immediately started apologizing.

“Crowley.” he was interrupted very sternly again.

“Oh, it's not that, dear...” he said very much more softly.

Aziraphale sighed deeply, wondering how to frame it or if there was any point in trying to put a spin on it. He did make sure to kiss his temple though, wanting to make it clear it was not about this new endearing tendency of his, but also not wanting to just grab him and kiss him without talking about it first, especially given where they were.

He could not be certain, having not discussed it yet, but he had a nagging suspicion that sex and intimacy were a complicated thing to Crowley, either personally or as a demon, maybe with him in particular. He was not sure in what ways exactly, but he did not miss the heat in his seeming compulsion, at least this time, and he thought that maybe laying in bed could put a very particular tone to something like that.

“Do you have any idea what it feels like?” he asked him, knowing that was insufficient information, afraid the question itself might be cruel, “The feeling of love that...” he got as far as generally trying to indicate him before Crowley started to look pained.

“No, angel, I can't say I do.” he said, clearly not following and also quite agitated at it being brought up.

“Well... I imagine you know how strong a wing can be, even on something the size of a duck or a goose...” he assumed, since anyone who had been around as long as him, and was so full of unmanaged hubris, must have had a violent exchange with water fowl on more than one occasion.

Crowley nodded vaguely, entertaining the analogy.

“Imagine wings as big and strong as ours... Big, big things... Now Imagine what it might be like if one that size just...” he made some small, searching gesture, “Were to smack you bodily into the ground.”

The suffocating violence of the imagery brought to mind the sensation of being winded by a football, while walking face first into a hot room, being smacked down with a pillow and having your nose broken all at the same time, only much stronger, unspeakably more profound.

“Not subtle?” he asked weakly, his hands already hiding his face.

“Not often, these days, no.” he admitted with a sad smile.

It was also often a very sudden and unexpected reaction that seemed to derive partially from whatever he was thinking in that particular moment, making it that much harder to predict.

“Oh Crowley, to think, I've never had to suffer any doubts about how you feel.” he said, holding him close, “I just don't want you to ever have to have those kinds of doubts, not from now on.”

“Is that why you've become so intent on -torturing- me?” he complained, only getting a soft smile.

It was a very long minute before he spoke again, and when he did, his voice seemed small.

“...So you can sense what I'm feeling? That strongly?” Crowley asking him, ignoring the twinge in his stomach.

“Well, not the particulars, but very generally.” he explained, perhaps less than helpfully, “So, dear boy, if you're looking for an excuse not to speak to me, it doesn't quite work like that.”

“How -does- it work?”

Of course he had been surprised to learn he had the sense at all, so it stood to reason that if he ever had he did not remember.

“Well, it's all rather vague. Just love, nothing more specific than that.”

It sounded like an empathic sense that only had one channel. Crowley seemed to accept that, at least.

“Crowley dear, the other night, I'm not sure if you remember, but you asked me what heaven felt like...” he prompted, wondering if he would remember his exact words, or the reasoning.

Crowley gave him a facial shrug.

“Must have been asleep then.” he sighed sadly.

He still wanted to know whether he truly could not sense love, or if maybe his sense of it was just diminished, maybe something he was unconsciously blocking out. Maybe, if he knew that he could reach out and there would be love there for him to feel, it would be easier.

Crowley just wanted to know how he managed to babble about heaven in his sleep without waking up with a dry tongue or something.

“And you really don't remember?”

Certainly there were some things he seemed to recall, at least in a factual sense.

“I don't know, angel, what have you read lately about repression?”

Aziraphale was giving him that look again, the one that was almost like crying, but also like he was going to start fussing over him or kissing his face again. If it was less affectionate or any less empathetic, he would call it pity.

It made sense, that he assumed it might be repression if it had the same symptoms and seemed to have the same experience. They were not human, but their bodies were, and thus their neurology could be, especially in Crowley's case. They were, on some level at least, as akin to humans as humans were made in God's image, after all.

“I suppose you may as well ask me to describe what it's like to sense love or something... But I'm afraid I might be being more insensitive than that.”, he sighed deeply “I just want to understand what it's like for you, but I shouldn't keep dragging this up. I'm sorry.” he said, kissing his hair again.

“Don't be sorry, angel.”

He knew he usually sounded very annoyed with it all, but Aziraphale seeking such an intimate understanding of him, even beyond what they had managed so far, it was the kind of expression of love that he could get a sense of. Even if it dragged up sore subjects.

“It's like... Remembering the memory, but not having it directly... Like you remember the parts of it that -er, are like _facts_. Like heaven is bright. Like having made a star. Like you -know- these things... On some level at least. Like you remember playing the memory back to yourself, sometimes even the feelings you had about it then, even after it's gone, like echoes, even if you don't remember the feeling in the memory itself. It's like all the details -and whatever it meant to you in the moment- are gone... At least, when I remember at all.”

“Like remembering that you like being on boats, but not... Not remembering what it's like to feel the wind in your hair, or what the air smells like... Just that you liked it?”

If a boat was eternal bliss, and love was just the feeling of wind in your hair, and the word 'like' somehow implied that you needed it to breathe.

“Like that, yeah, and if I really try... really -scratch- at it, I might be able to remember what it felt like, some things... Maybe not each star in particular, not every detail the way it feels like I should, but what it was like to do it, at least kind of generally... But then...”

Then he would have to face every emotion and realization that came with never being able to have that back, everything that came with that no longer being his reality, everything that came with having lost that.

“So you remember enough to -know- what you're missing, but not enough that you even get to have that memory? ...Because it...”

He made it sound like even the things he did remember had the personal experience of it stripped out, the emotional connection to it gutted, so everything could be tidy digestible facts, because otherwise it was too much pain for his mind to process. Now Aziraphale really did look like he was going to cry.

“That,well... That sounds just awful...”

He had no idea what to say, he just wanted to make it better. Impossible, sure, but he wanted to do something to help.

“Oh, angel, don't cry.”

He genuinely did not know how such a wily demon could be so sweet and ridiculous. There was something deeply wrong about a universe where he was not broadly considered a good person.

“No, Crowley, don't... This isn't about how -I-feel.”

Crowley was going to kiss him. It would happen. Someday, he would forget himself just enough that in a moment of emotion like this, he would just do it and have to deal with whatever that meant to either of them. He would just have to find out whether or not it mattered exactly, whether it was good or bad or if it changed anything at all. He had already made it halfway there. Aziraphale kissed his face all the time.

Aziraphale was not sure what had made him suddenly so effusive. He contemplated just asking him if he wanted to be kissed, but this still did not seem like the right time or place for that. He did not yet know how he intended the gesture, what it meant to him or whether this was the right context for it. Even these kisses, to his cheek, temple, forehead, the sides of his face, where starting to linger a little too tenderly, starting to get a little too close to his ear or neck.

“Crowley, please.” he begged him, trying to make sure it was soft and warm.

He seemed to remember himself and drew a hissing breath next to his ear. Then it was very easy to kiss both of his hands and then his forehead because they were already covering his face again. He gave him a while to collect himself and curl back up.

“Crowley, dearest?” he breathed deeply, “Don't you feel it when I wrap around you?” he asked.

“You mean, like this?” he asked, squirming indulgently into his arms, “'Course.”

Aziraphale was not sure if he was being flippant, or if he was just sleepy enough not to examine the logic of it.

“No, my dear, I mean...”

He meant the way Crowley often had him in a strangle-hold. He unfurled the energy that would normally inhabit his wings, if they were corporeal, and folded him gently into it all. Crowley hummed.

“Feels warm.” he said sleepily.

“You do feel that then?” he asked.

“I feel -you- angel.” he specified, “Can sense... plenty, just not... Not the way you can.”

“And if I hold you very close, and projected as strongly as you do, are you sure you couldn't feel it?”

Crowley was not sure he liked the sound of the word 'projected' in this instance. Aziraphale made it sound like he was a walking torch of embarrassingly loud emotions that was often hard to even look at, even if he could not see it himself and even if no one else bothered noticing. Not that he never felt like that, especially lately, which was probably why he did not like the sound of it.

“You're welcome to try.” he tried to play at coolness, but his voice was feeling mild at the moment, and it really did sound very nice.

“Well, I'm not sure if I can -quite- manage it, my dearest... But I'll give it my best.” he said, being cheeky.

It was not at all hard to focus on all the love and affection he had for him. It felt like breathing, to fill himself with it, like he was finally taking full breaths of air, used to a weight on his chest that had been lifted.

Every time, he was so careful. Always like the gentlest hug, as if he was afraid that if he squeezed too hard Crowley's surface would break, like an overripe peach. It was like being eased up to by the ocean, like the tide, except its was not just the first brush over your foot that felt as if it had been warmed by the sun.

“Well dear?”

“T's nice.” he mumbled, almost drunkenly.

Being wrapped up in flesh was preferable to them both for the most part, but it was very absorbing, for him at least, distracting. Perhaps even more so for him, not just because of his curse, but because he wanted it to be, because he actually tried to live like a human would. He never really forgot what he was -he could not- but sometimes he lost the sense of where his energy was outside the body, lost track of what he was projecting, got absorbed in the physical sensations that were grounded in nerves and skin. Like a cat's tail, the rest of him swayed where it wanted, these unanchored extensions, this aura of his being that was just too big to stuff into a mortal body. Aziraphale, wrapping around him like thousands of warm and feather-light touches, made him aware of where all his edges were, it felt like being able to feel again, with his whole self.

“What do you feel?” he asked, as if the answer should not be obvious.

Of course it was wonderful.

“Just feels like you... Just more of you.” he almost mumbled, seeming far too happy to just go right back to sleep.

Aziraphale seemed really hung up on trying to conceptualize what his experience of things were. Crowley did not know if a visual representation of things could help. He made the little lights he felt visible, and let them chase the feeling of soft touches all over, so little fireflies filled the air, leaving thread-like trails of light behind them. Of course his mind would settle on a bright electric blue, the colour he adjusted himself to see the moment Aziraphale was around, or the colour his brain often filled in for him -even when he did not- because he knew what colour his eyes were.

Of course, this made him acutely aware of how he was already wrapped back around him. It would not really surprise him if their auras had become all pressed together lately, it certainly felt like it in general, constant embraces. There was always that heady feeling of too much and too little air. It was not until this moment that he really noticed how much less reserved Aziraphale had become about it, as if finally having tested the water enough over time to be reassured it was completely safe to reach back the same way.

Aziraphale saw the shape of himself traced out in the air anywhere they were in contact, filling the whole room with soft blue light. Either Crowley could not sense love, or he could not distinguish between Aziraphale and the love coming from him. Maybe he could not distinguish between the feeling of Aziraphale and love altogether. Maybe he could not sense love because some deep fear held him back, or -he could at least joke to himself- Crowley could not sense love, in part, because the affection pouring off of himself drowned it out.

“You asked me if this is what heaven feels like.”

He did not want to embarrass him, but it was really very sweet.

“I thought, you remembered what it was like, at least very generally.”

“Ye-ah, well, I wouldn't remember the really good parts... Probably, anyway... And I wasn't actually -in- heaven all that much, per se... And you seem to remember heaven generally like I do... But that's...”

Crowley could not remember asking this specifically, but the sentiment of it was very familiar and he was trying to trace the steps that lead there. Really it was reassuring Aziraphale remembered heaven being the same kind of cold sterility, and impersonal, the way he did, it reassured him he was not missing much by not being there; but there was heaven as it was now, and what it meant to be an Angel in God's favour in the cosmos in general.

“Doesn't seem like it -has- to be like that, upstairs, seems like it's that way because of the people, the er- culture, or what have you.”

Following that logic, if you could surround yourself with the right people, and have the freedom of good favour, and all your senses intact to bask in it, it sounded like that could be pretty nice; certainty, security and love, but then, in a lot of ways, he had that here.

“Doesn't matter anyway, if there was someone worth being around in heaven, it'd be you, and you're here so...”

“And there's nowhere else I'd rather be.” he cooed at him, cuddling him closer.

The fact that Aziraphale had chosen to be at his side in the end meant the world to him, but he really had stubbornly gone out of his way first. Still, his desperation to believe the best of people and the system, and his loyalty, they were not bad traits, only less charming when it robbed him of clarity or lead him to say hurtful things.

~*~

He had not quite realized how used he was to feeling Aziraphale near him, until he felt like the bottom dropped out of everything. He was headed in some direction, probably out of London, or across it, thinking it better to keep moving. He really wished he had kept some of the holy water aside to drop the tape in, since Hastur would escape at some point and be all the more motivated. He was somewhere between worrying about escaping, and already deciding he should certainly go make sure Aziraphale was not under similar attack, when the pit of his stomach dropped out with everything else.

He tried to tell himself it was in his head, just a product of his anxiety, even if he was already starting to turn the car, but then the thought of him no longer being a part of his life raised the question of how he -would- cope with it. Everything he had lost before -that was too painful to remember- he had forgotten in order to cope, and if that was how he responded to this too, he had no way of controlling that. The car stopped. Surely he could not already be disconnecting from his sense of him, not that he really knew how this worked. He hardly remembered the -process- of forgetting. Either way, something was suddenly horribly wrong with everything and his car was driving back the other way now at speeds he did not know it was capable of.

He had already stormed off twice, but he did not really know the kind of shame necessary to keep him from needing to do so again. He wanted that to be the issue, that he might try and fail to make his case again, because the thought of anything having progressed to something less salvageable than that was too much.

Even stuffed into little human bodies, their auras -or their true forms- were far-reaching, and after six thousand years Crowley was certain that his ability to sense when Aziraphale was nearby was only to be expected, assuming he was not imagining he had that sense. He imagined it could be compared to standing in a grocery market and looking out at the people around you, being able to recognize someone you knew, only where the supermarket was all of London, and less corporeal than that. Though, sometimes it was hard for him to tell the difference between his imagination clashing with coincidence, and what happened to be real. A thousand and one little realizations, of what could be, were buzzing at the back of his consciousness, trying to breach into it, but the noise of it all was letting him shove it all back. He just needed to focus on driving. Aziraphale would be at his shop. He was always at his shop. He had to be there.

It was not over. It could not be over.

If his thoughts had not already been a consistent stream of swearing before, they certainly were when he saw the smoke that was too close to the shop for comfort, and certainly somehow more so when he was faced with having to entirely accept it really was the shop on fire.

Something in him broke over that day.

It was a blur of reactions and emotions that he was still processing now. He had gone from disbelief into warring rage and depression. Being as he could not do anything to change what had happened or what was going to happen, he found himself in a bar, not caring that he was crying in public because everything was over anyway. He would rather die with the world than to forget him. To forget the last six thousand years would be to forget himself anyway. It was over.

Consciously he was teetering between staying there and drinking while the world burned down around him, and going after the people responsible during the impending chaos. Maybe even take a good swing at the highest authorities -he- could find for having this be the end. He could hardly hope to survive against all the forces of heaven and hell, who would all be after him, but maybe he could find Gabriel and punch him squarely in the face, even if it was his last act. Unconsciously he was desperately trying to drink enough that he might feel it all a little less, no small feat for a being like him.

Either way, he was done with any pretence at all of buying into the system, or of letting anyone else do so in peace. Heaven and hell, angels and demons, it all meant nothing if everyone's big plan was to burn down everything that meant anything like it was all worthless. Again, he was left wondering how things could have gone if he had been more insistent, made Aziraphale examine things more, found the right questions to ask him, gotten him to ask the right ones.

Aziraphale was smart and a good person, so surely he could have found some discussion to engage him in that would have made a difference. He had been hesitant to, more than he had, until it came down to the final hours, because Aziraphale -wanted- to identify with heaven, and he had wanted to respect that, ultimately, even if he felt it was a horrible idea all around. Still, it felt like he had failed horribly, and he could only hope he did not have to live through the rest of eternity this way. There was no warmth, no light left in the world, except maybe the hellfire that would chase him vengefully to the end of it, figuratively, because it was already ending. All the light the world had for -him- had already gone from it.

The world was going to end and there was probably nothing he could do about that either. He questioned if he should be making his way into hiding in the stars by now, but without Aziraphale, it would just be an eternity to dwell on whether he could have done more to save him. Maybe at some point he would open the one book he had managed to save and spend his time reading it until the end, maybe he would think of something at some point that he could do after all. Maybe when he was done taking a precious moment to fail to process, he would see what he could do for the humans on his way out. Maybe he could pray, maybe the last time he ever would, that Aziraphale would not be destroyed, that he would find some way to escape, in the end, and -even if he did not come find him- that he could be happy, find some place that actually did suit him.

For this moment though, everything was darkness, the book was nothing more than an anchor, something to hold onto in this mess, and he just needed to feel what he was feeling; which was, at this point, too much. One thought and anxiety spiralled uselessly into another and somehow -when he got like this, stopped processing- he always managed to meander back to the beginning, the first big thing he never finished processing; his fall. It was how it all began, more or less. If you could not mutter to yourself about your fall from heaven in a random tavern at the end of the world, he did not know when else it was appropriate.

Then -there in the middle of fresh and unprocessed hell on earth- Aziraphale appeared in the air in front of him. He was hazy, and his eyes did not seem to quite be able to settle on anything. They then proceeded to have a conversation that would leave Crowley with even more to unpack at some point.

For one, Aziraphale's greeting seemed already a confession he had been wrong to let things get this far. Which seemed the closest to an apology he would probably get. For another, he seemed to come to the conclusion himself that Crowley would end up choosing Alpha Centauri, even though Crowley had not finished settling on it yet. He -seemed- to catch his meaning, when he -again- confessed his emotional attachment, though he did not seem to want to spare a moment to truly acknowledge it or get into it just then. Immediately he was distracted by having to tell him what happened to the shop, and really he was heartbroken for him, but then the world was ending so, it was all going to burn anyway. Another upswing to having done just the right thing, grabbing that book. The book had gone from being an anchor to a life-line, and then, all of a sudden, they had a plan, they had a direction. They had hope.

He could have kissed him then, just for being brilliant, except he could not, and he was not exactly corporeal anyway, and he did not yet know whether he was relieved enough to forget being angry, everything was all off balance. It was easier to handle the news of him being discorporated when he was right there in front of him and seemed to have escaped heaven. He was already trying to work out the logistics of getting back together, all corporeal and the like, but Aziraphale seemed to have other plans for him. They had to act now and pick up the pieces later. At least they were going to the same place. Then Aziraphale started doing that thing again, where he said things in highly suggestive wording and Crowley could not tell whether he was aware of having done so, or how intentional it was.

Now was not the time to unpack anything, least of all that Aziraphale's fist thought seemed to be sharing his body to get to Armageddon, and that the only thing stopping him was that he was concerned it was not safe for them. If he was expecting Crowley to protest, he had not left him the space to even process the suggestion. They had come a long way from 'I'm an -angel- and you're a -demon-' to 'pity the logistics that forbid us from just walking around in the same skin', and never mind the phrasing, or the implication that he was assumed willing, that was for another time. Now he must have been feeling much better, at least, because he was back to being annoyed by phrases like ' _with a wiggle on_ ' instead of being relieved just to hear it again.

The end of the world was in Tadfield, the universe was looking out for him after all, and Aziraphale -though discorporated- was going to be there. He felt like he could breathe again and sobered up in a real hurry. Then a lot of stuff happened very quickly, and they were walking off of the battlefield to make their various ways home. It was over, and he was looking at Aziraphale. He had watched it all happen, been there for it himself, and yet he could hardly believe how lucky they had been, or that he was looking at him now, all wrapped up in the body he was used to seeing, against all odds. A bottle of wine and a ride later, they were back at his flat and it was time to start processing everything that had happened and planning their next move.

He unlocked the door, opening it and stepping aside, not being able to recall Aziraphale ever having been here before. It took the shop burning down and the world almost ending, but he had finally taken him up on his offer to go back to his place; not that they had not spent many long nights talking together in his shop until dawn.

Ordinarily this would be Aziraphale stepping out of his comfort zone, but right now he could not think of anything more comforting than Crowley's presence, or that they had a relatively safe place to return to at all. He was sure they both had stories to tell, and their work was not done. Heaven and hell could try to retaliate at any moment, and -even if it felt like they could be taking the time to catch their breath- he thought it was probably prudent they figure out what to do to protect themselves.

He watched Crowley slump, back against the door, after he closed it. He looked tired, and he sighed like he wanted to give in to relief, but something about the look on his face told him that he too knew they were both still liable to be under fire.

Crowley felt unsteady. The wine, if anything, had helped calm his nerves a fair deal. The day had left him raw and feeling like he was shaking somewhere on the inside. He did not think their bodies were meant for this kind of stress. Now, especially finally feeling like they had some privacy and safety, he was resisting an overwhelming urge to hug him, just hold him. He was just very relieved to have him back in one piece. How close he had been to losing him was rushing at him all at once now.

“Dear boy, you look positively dreadful.” he said, watching him pale visibly against the door.

Then Aziraphale was under his chin and gently indicating he should remove his sunglasses now that he was home. His nerves could not take this at the moment. He wanted to grab hold of him and never let go again. This was all stupid, this whole dance they did that kept threatening to let them be torn apart forever. He hated it. He hated the necessity of it. He hated that it was probably a better idea to keep them on because Aziraphale was not good at handling emotions, especially not the kind directed at him.

“Angel, are you sure?” he asked as Aziraphale's hand lifted ahead of his.

This was the second time that day someone had reached for his glasses. The first time it had been unwelcome and abrupt, a cruel and casual tearing away of his barriers; violating. This was different. This was slow and gentle, and something he was afraid was as easy to stop as the wrong brush from his own hand.

“Just... Let me see you?” Aziraphale said to him quietly, caving into something in himself right in front of him.

Crowley's hand followed his, meekly, but did not make to stop him.

“There you are.” he said fondly, with a little smile, having pulled them away.

Crowley clamped his mouth shut so the air escaping his lungs cold not make any noise, and it felt slow and hot in his nose. He meant to close his hands on his but he was left holding his glasses instead. Then Aziraphale had one arm around him.

“Up you get...” he coaxed him, pulling him out of his slouch against the door and into the flat.

“Let's sit down, shall we? Perhaps even a cup of tea...” he said, leading him.

Aziraphale was hugged to his side under his arm. It would be too easy of a motion to just bend their trajectories together slightly. Halfway there Aziraphale stopped leading him for a moment.

“Oh.” he said, more warm than surprised, despite that Crowley had not done anything.

Crowley -had- been leaning towards him, putting himself as close to him as possible, and -in a less corporeal sense- trying to wrap around him since he had re-appeared. He slogged, more than sauntered, to the couch now with a less than subtle tilt, though clearly not drunk. Crowley wanted to hold him, but would not, would not even ask at this point. The poor thing had probably had his fair share of rejection over the past couple of days. He could hardly blame him.

“Sorry.” Crowley mumbled, in a constricted kind of way, trying to right himself a bit.

Aziraphale had to wonder how aware he was of it at the moment, or whether he was just apologizing for seeming too affected and not quite being able to keep his exhaustion and emotions in check.

“Don't apologize, dear. I can't imagine the day you must have had.” he said, wrapping his arm around his waist a bit tighter.

Aziraphale found holding him, even to his side, to be a relief; more so because Crowley seemed to draw so much reassurance from it. Crowley nodded and he could already see him holding back tears. Usually Crowley put up every front and pretence of being cool and collected, unaffected, especially in public, but this had all just clearly been too much. The entire way home he had seemed to want to just fold into him, even quite obviously to Aziraphale, despite that he was usually bad at reading these things, and now Crowley was as much home as either of them could be, given the circumstances. Body language aside, it was a little hard to miss his energy not just leaning towards him, but actively grasping at him, as if afraid he would leave or be taken away again.

“I thought...” his voice broke, and he took that opportunity to swallow whatever he was going to say.

Aziraphale lead him to sit down on the sofa. If there was a time to fall apart rather than act, now was it, briefly anyway, and Crowley had more than earned it. Aziraphale's way of processing things was very much quieter, generally -at least after his initial reaction- and slower, rationalizations about it slowly fading away until he accepted things somewhere in the background, never sure when it happened exactly that he came to conclusions or how long it had really been that he had accepted knowing something by the time it came to the forefront.

Crowley, in general, seemed to either process things very emotionally and immediately, or bury them. Right now that meant that Crowley was primed to fall apart, and Aziraphale felt as put together as he could, whether or not that was illusory. He wanted to tell him that he could give up whatever facade he was still trying to maintain, but he thought it might be better to get them settled in first.

The whole place was relatively open-concept, and that made it easy to start making tea and find a blanket -even if it was a decorative throw- and some cushions, though similarly decorative, to try to make him more comfortable. Crowley seemed to accept the distraction of being tucked in and brought tea, watching Aziraphale figure it all out with little interjection.

He had already been mulling over the final prophesy the entire way back. Some idea of how they needed to proceed was already biting at the back of his brain, like the hell hounds at their heels. That needed to wait, and he was sure it could, for at least a few hours. Both sides were frustrating bureaucracies, and it would take them time to organize a retaliation. They would probably also wait until they were out, not in a building they could have easily set traps in. Whiffs of holy-water reached his nose.

He handed Crowley his tea, and held his hands steady around it, kneeling to meet his eyes. He wanted to come sit with him, but he also felt like something was about to break open and he was procrastinating about it, really, trying to prepare himself for whatever it was, in his own way. The longer he looked up into his eyes, the more he watched any trace of white threaten to disappear completely, and the more he felt ill-prepared for whatever was about to spill out.

“Crowley, dear... I'm going to clean that up for you.” he said, indicating the direction of the holy water still on his floor, “Then we can sit and talk.” he assured him, rubbing a thumb against his hand.

If Crowley had any protests, he bit them back behind a shaking lip to nod in agreement.

He wanted that danger to him gone, now that it had been put to a relief of a use -he assumed as a kind of trap, given what he found on the floor- he wanted it entirely out of the equation. He wanted Crowley to feel like this space was safe again, if that was possible. He made sure he got rid of every last trace of it, checking the room and the hallway over a few times, very thoroughly. He made sure any trace of it was gone from himself too, not caring what miracles he used to do it or what kind of report they might show up on.

Crowley wanted to get his attention, ask him to stop buzzing around and just hold still, just come sit down where he was close and where he cold reassure himself he was safe and not going anywhere. It was not wholly rational though, he hardly had the words for it, and he did not trust his voice anyway.

Finally he perched on the sofa next to Crowley, and quickly checked himself over one more time to be sure, earning a quirk of an eyebrow and a head tilt, in spite of the fact that he still seemed close to tears.

“I'll admit I'm relieved... That it's gone.” he said, more to make conversation than anything, “But that really was a sloppy trap, and I rather think we could come up with something less dangerous than that.”

In fact, he was suddenly sparing a lot of thought as to what they could do as far as safety precautions. Crowley just gave him the same long look he had been giving him since Tadfield, still looking like he was going to fold into him, and still trying not to cry.

“Crowley.” he sighed, all concern and affection, “What is it, dear?” he asked, giving him his undivided attention.

Crowley was already shaking his head as if to dismiss it, but his voice did not seem to want to obey him. His mouth opened as if to speak before he closed it again to hold in whatever sound was about to come out. He could not stand seeing him like this.

“I- Angel, I thought I'd lost you.” he said, losing control of the shaking in his lip.

He took his teacup away before he could manage to spill any of it and set it aside. Watching him try to hold all of this back somehow made it even worse. If he had strongly suspected he might be referring to him before, this laid it out undeniably before him that what he had witnessed earlier was Crowley grieving because he thought he would never see him again, and that even now he was finding the possibility of it too much to consider. The fact that they were not out of the woods yet did not escape him either. In fact, that was probably what had him still in this state, that he still could lose him before this was over. This time his glasses were gone and there was no barrier or excuse between Aziraphale and his tears. He was not even sure there was anything he could say that was honest or could really help.

Crowley very much was not expecting Aziraphale to be the one to pull him into a hug, even if it was for a lack of words, or because he was a complete mess and was sure he looked like it. Somehow folding into his shoulder and staying there came unexpectedly easily, and Aziraphale was nowhere near as stiff about it as he would have thought.

It hurt, watching him try to make falling apart tidy and unobtrusive, and polite. It was as if he thought too much emotion would be unwelcome or off-putting. It was certainly awkward, and he had very little idea how to help, but if they were going to make themselves useful tonight, there was pressing reason to let him go through whatever processing he needed to.

Besides that, it was heartbreaking. Aziraphale had always had a hard time confessing attachment, regardless of how he felt, but Crowley had always done so easily, even if Aziraphale always brushed it off, or rejected it. He could not help but think that him doing that was exactly why Crowley was trying to hide how much this was affecting him, and it felt all wrong. He pulled him in closer, turning him so he could hold him, and to let him hide against him.

“I'm so sorry, dear.” he said trying to soothe him.

“I came back... again, after they came for me I thought -maybe they figured it out- that they might... and I couldn't... You weren't there and everything was burning, and you'd -never- let it all burn down, so I knew... I thought... And they'd never...”

Neither heaven nor hell would ever just let them walk away again if they could get their claws into them. That it seemed clear he had run into a burning building to look for him -between this half confession and the book- even knowing it was probably hopeless, was something they should probably unpack and address later.

“Oh, Crowley... I'm right here.” he said, rubbing his back.

That was either very wrong, or right, because it seemed to be the last straw between Crowley and breaking down completely. Suddenly he was in a very tight hug. It was probably what he needed, at that moment, to put himself back together, to finish actually breaking down first.

“That's it.” Aziraphale said, rubbing his back.

He took the time himself to hold him securely and bury his nose in his hair; something burnt like old incense, something very warm and spiced, something sweet but pleasantly sharp, his sweat, and his car, which -less usual- smelled far more of burning than he would like. For one heartbreaking moment Crowley was actually just crying, openly sobbing. He had been in a constant state of worry and nerves himself all day but seeing Crowley in such distress just drove it all home. It was not too long before he calmed down again and started trying to clean himself up and apologize. He handed him some tissue.

“Don't... Don't you ever apologize for...” he sighed, trying to find a way to even define all of it, “Well, for having feelings.”

It was more than that, but it would have to do. He wiped off his own cheeks on the backs of his hands. He had to admit even he had found it cathartic, just being able to be present with each other and feel whatever they were feeling, after the day they had, given the day they were probably about to. There was no chance of them sleeping tonight, no chance of them doing anything like letting their guard down until they had worked something out.

Aziraphale meant to give his arm a reassuring pat and retreat to a decent distance to converse from, so they could figure out what to do next, but took his hand on impulse. Apparently that was very welcome too because now Crowley had it in a subtle death-grip and he was not getting it back. He seemed to be back to an illusion of relatively put together, at least now that he had a grip on things.

“Well, I'm not sure all the holy water in heaven could help us now anyway.” he cleared his throat a little, “But I -am- ever so glad to see you're alright, dear.”

“For now.” he scoffed, “I killed another demon, angel, with _holy water._.. I'm not even going to imagine what they'll do to me.” he said, right before his mind started trying to, against all better judgement.

“If they catch you.” Aziraphale corrected, hopefully, and then withered.

He was not sure there was really any way they could keep that from happening. It was really quite hard to be his cheery and optimistic self at the moment, thinking about what could happen to them.

“When, angel.” he corrected him back, bitterly, “It's only a question of when.” he lamented, deflated.

He did not even think running off together now would help, not without the distraction of the war they had all wanted.

“Don't know what your lot have planned for you but...” he devolved from there into general sounds of distress and things that were less defined than that.

Being torn in half and lakes of sulphur sprang to mind, for a start.

“Crowley, Crowley, _please,_ Don't even speculate _._ I can't...”

He would break down crying if he had to consider what they would do to him for even a moment. It was bad enough even having to consider everything he had already been put through -by hell or being a demon, historically speaking- and he knew he did not know the beginning of it.

“Sorry.” Crowley muttered, not lacking in sincerity.

“I'd take your place... If I could.” he admitted, sudden cold certainty.

“Oh, angel, no. No I don't want to- Can't even think of what they would do with an angel.”

The best they could hope for was they they would not either, being as anything they tried might -too immediately- destroy him. He at least looked like he understood, his expression being on the right continuum of something encompassing dread, apprehension and horror, if not quite far enough along it.

“Still, if I knew I was saving you from it, then, well, I'd have that, at least.” he offered him a small smile and Crowley squeezed his hand, already shaking his head.

It was as if he was telling him he could not just say stuff like that. Again he was faced with his raw emotions. This was his own doing, he was the one who had started strongly encouraging him to take those glasses off when they were alone, in private, knowing why he wore them. He had a very expressive face, even more expressive eyes, and Aziraphale was not sure he was even good at the kind of dishonesty it took to try to hide one's emotions.

“Same.” he said tearfully.

He could not really criticise him for having a hard time with this, a far as they both knew they were sitting together at the opening scene to their own torture, execution and funerals. Something nagged at him though, something squirmed insistently against the back of his mind. Maybe it was just that -at their cores- they were both optimists, and everything had proven to have a habit of working out for them so far. Maybe it was that his faith in the great plan and heaven had been replaced with a growing faith that there was something bigger -and altogether kinder- going on, and that they had whatever they needed to see it through, even if they did not understand it.

“Maybe then we could at least hope for a quick death, if we traded... If they didn't know, the first thing they tried, it would probably be over with quick.” Crowley entertained morbidly.

“If that's not their goal to begin with.” Aziraphale was somehow right there with him, willing to entertain it because he felt like they were on the edge of something else.

“Yeah, that's exactly how creative they are.. I killed a demon with holy water, so maybe they'd just find some to dip me in...” he joked, flippantly.

As if they could or would go near the stuff.

“Real shame I couldn't take your place in that case... Give them a right scare...”

“Shame we -couldn't- just trade.” Crowley said in the same barely convinced drawl he had used to agree with Aziraphale's misgivings, about something similar, earlier that day, “At least fuck with them a bit, on our way out.” he interrupted himself bitterly, “Not that we could without...” he added before Aziraphale could also interrupt him.

“Oh!” Aziraphale was suddenly wide-eyed and looking everywhere, and then in his pockets with his free hand.

“No, no... Dear, sweet, brilliant boy, that's exactly what I think we're meant to do.” he said, looking mildly distressed anyway.

His tone was so warm, his eyes had their light back, and he had resumed seeming almost naively enthusiastic. Crowley took his free hand to dig the prophesy out of his own pocket, certain it was what he was looking for.

“Look here.” he said, taking it between his fingers, only enough to steady it.

' _When alle is fayed and all is done, ye must choofe your faces wisely, for soon enouff, ye will be playing with fyre.'_

“Every prophesy so far has helped us along to the best outcome, beyond -even- what we could have conceived of... They've all been on the money, astoundingly so...” he said, licking his lip and taking a breath, “If we were wearing each other's faces, well, even if it doesn't save us entirely, perhaps at least whatever they have planned won't have the expected effect, and it might... Give us the upper hand, so to speak?”

“T's worth a shot...” he nodded vaguely, “But, angel...” he leaned back to look at him curiously, “Are you... sure that's safe?” he tested, one knee wobbling idly.

“Well.” he cleared his throat and straightened a little, “I'm not sure what else she could be trying to tell us.” he said, looking at the paper, “Besides, it's hardly the same... Trading bodies, vessels, it's not really like squeezing into the same one is it?”

Crowley, in spite of all else, could not help but be amused, watching him rationalize his way into this instead of away from it. There were comments he could make about him seeming set on getting into his body, but he was not going to go there. He knew Aziraphale would not be half as affected by it as he himself would be, and he hardly had the constitution for however he responded at the moment. All he could muster himself was a raised eyebrow.

“I don't suppose you have a better idea?” he asked, knowing the answer and only sounding mildly annoyed.

Crowley shrugged dismissively with his whole face and shook his head, still not trusting himself to say anything.

“Well then, it's settled.” he asserted, then paused, almost said something, and then brushed it off.

“What now?” Crowley nearly grumbled, not missing that he was about to be indicated for some comment.

“Ah- you um, well, I don't mean to be insensitive but, you still smell like burning car.” he winced, “I can take care of that though.” he brushed it off quickly.

For just a moment the gears in Crowley's mind ground to a halt, before he realized he probably meant with a miracle; probably, unless he would find that frivolous. Crowley snapped his fingers, instantly clean. Aziraphale rolled his eyes at him, shaking his head slightly. He had to wonder how much the heat in his face was visible and how much -or what- he had read into it.

“It would probably be better to switch sooner rather than later, give us time to get used to it. Really -sell- it.”

Crowley just nodded at him in a vague kind of way.

“We should be careful though, not to ah- inhabit any of the same space, while we switch.”

Now his anxiety was showing.

“Yeah... What with the potential of exploding and all...” Crowley said with a tone and meaning that completely escaped him, somewhere near toneless in a vaguely distressed sort of way.

“Could you be a dear and make sure no one is watching?” he asked, tone forced to lightness, “We'll have to pick our moment carefully.” he said, sounding less certain by the moment.

“Not a soul.” Crowley answered the unspoken question after a moment.

They were probably busy plotting, and likely assured they would find them again quite easily, the moment they wanted to. They were creatures of habit.

“Right.” Aziraphale said, fidgeting and straightening himself, turning towards him more.

They were already holding hands. Aziraphale pressed back against him, with his true self, very carefully. He felt the surface of his being like a malleable film.

“Crowley, dear boy, you have to move out of the way.” he scolded him lightly.

“Nuh? Yeah.” he responded, as if snapping out of a trance.

He pulled his energy like thick spider webs off to one side, breaking his connection with nerves, one at a time. Aziraphale slid gently past him to take his place, half his hand now, leaving room for him. They would have to be careful, with the heart, lungs and brains, make sure they did not damage their bodies unnecessarily. For the first time in thousands of years his body became flesh he could shed. He did not like that feeling, but Aziraphale sliding so gently and respectfully past him was a decently pleasant distraction.

Taking too long at this might be unfortunate. Aziraphale would inhabit his body in whatever state he left it in. It would be stressed near the point of crying again and a general kind of nervous, on a biochemical level, there was no helping that, but allowing himself to get too flustered was a level of emotional vulnerability he just was not prepared for at the moment. There was only so much to be done about that anyway, with him slowly sliding into place, inhabiting the nerves next to him, the ones still connected to the brain he had lived in for the past six thousand years and had not vacated yet.

Crowley had been ill prepared for the intimacy of it; maybe they both had. It was all gentle leading and warmth and -at some points- something close to confusion about what belonged to who. He felt himself being pressed into place, as if Aziraphale was tucking him in properly. Millions of feathers dusted gently away from his being and he opened his eyes. What he felt was strained sort of calm, suspended stubbornly over a pit of anxiety.

Crowley had gone quite malleable about halfway through the process, so he took over directing him. When he was done he retreated into his new form. Instantly he was bombarded with sensation, anxiety and a deep craving for security reined supreme. He was not sure how Crowley could just leave everything so unchecked, endocrine system running amok, nerves a complete mess, hormones a disaster. He immediately thought to clear it all away, but this seemed a rare opportunity to understand something of his friend's experience. Crowley seemed to be taking a moment anyway.

“Dear boy, is this?” he was a bit at a loss, and the voice was weird, “Is this what it's like for you?” he asked.

“You're one to talk.” Crowley brushed it off, with the air of waking.

He felt like he could taste repression. He ran the tongue over the roof of the mouth as if trying to clear an unpleasant flavour. Really he had to stop looking at him like that. He knew he had expressive eyes, whatever else they were, and that was as much a part of wearing sunglasses as anything.

From their own perspective they had felt like they had poured out into each other, but they were not anchored to space the way most other beings were, more, peeking into it at particular points if you really got down to it, and it was -in fact- their bodies that had swapped places around them. All things were relative.

Crowley flexed his hand, Aziraphale's hand, the one that was not holding his own.

“I know, it's not much.” he looked uncomfortable suddenly, “Can't help but feel like you lost out...”

“Angel.” Crowley snapped, “I l- _lost_ you today.” he said, swallowing something, “Do you have any idea how relieved I was to see this face again?” he asked.

Then he calmed down enough to regain enough self-awareness to blush.

“I know it's not -you- not really... but it's been you, to me, for _six thousand_ years.” he said, looking away, “I mean, I'd get used to it, if I had to, you having another face... if it meant...”

If it meant getting to keep him, getting to be near him; if it meant he was okay. Of course he could not admit to all the times in their history he had wished these hands would just hold him. He was thankful that it felt like these cheeks did not blush quite as hotly. His own body's blush response had always been annoyingly on a hair trigger, and far too enthusiastic for his liking.

“Angel...” he sighed, looking away again, “You can't go around looking at people with my face like that...”

Of course Aziraphale would look angelic, even with his face, but then, he had to wonder if he never looked that earnest and sweet. Seeing someone he was so fond of staring out through those eyes made him start to see how Aziraphale might find them charming. It was one of the first affectionate things he had ever done, compliment his eyes. Aziraphale was very clearly used to trying to be unobtrusive and only take up a polite amount of space, and seeing it in his own body made it very obvious, made him look so small, and kind of delicate. He would have to coach him out of it if they were going to pull this off.

Aziraphale, meanwhile, was trying to settle similarly with how Crowley was wearing him. It made it sharply apparent how much Crowley's body language was always very open, especially towards him. On Crowley it looked cool and aloof -when everything else in him did not show through too much- on his body it looked inappropriate. He could not deny how comforting the hand wrapped around his was; soft, warm and only dry or textured enough to suggest handling a lot of paper. Every echo in this body craved that warmth, even though -for him- it felt dissonant. He felt his face get hot the moment he noticed it, even though it was just the body's memory of how it usually responded to stimulus. It stung, and he could hardly imagine how Crowley lived like this.

“Well, angel, if this doesn't work out, this could be our last night on earth.” he drawled, gravity and dark humour clashing with a hint of suggestion.

It sounded odd to hear his speech patterns and more relaxed way of speaking coming out in Aziraphale's voice. His own face took all of this in and looked back at him, scandalized.

“Crowley, you can't sit like that. It's completely indecent.” he scolded him, face still hot.

Crowley straightened up and fixed his bow tie, straightened the vest and his lapels.

“Is that what you really think?” he teased.

“Not for -you- just...” he made a face.

“Better start trying to get used to this now then.” he said, raising one eyebrow.

They probably had the night at least, to coach each other, get used to walking around, but also reminisce, get everything they needed to off of their chests and go through the collection of gourmet food in the fridge and whatever wine they were saving for a special enough occasion. This could be their last night together, and they were going to make the most of it in any way that really mattered.

By the time the sun rose, they were much more comfortable in their skin, and it was a beautiful Sunday morning.

~*~

“How did you get back anyway? They didn't let you go, or you wouldn't have needed someone to wear...” Crowley asked him.

“Oh, I already told you that.” Aziraphale brushed it off.

“Not -really- though did you? I mean, you said you'd left, that it was 'unconventional' and that you didn't use official channels, but you didn't really specify how... How you just -leave- you know...”

“In fact, you were annoyingly vague about a lot of things.” he added with a cool eyebrow quirk.

“Well, it's nothing remarkable...” he said, proceeding to explain the very simple act of having reached out to the world -or the model of it- to be drawn back down to it, “What is it, dear?” he finished.

Crowley was hiding his face.

“You make it sound like you just... Threw yourself out of heaven to get back to...”

He could not say to what out loud because his heart was already harassing his ears with relentless throbbing noise. It was not a sentiment that had been lacking before, or an implication he had entirely missed, but this was laying it quite bare at his feet.

“To you, here on earth. Yes well, I suppose I did.” he shrugged, stroking his hair.

No bloody wonder he could hardly function around him any more. Aziraphale no longer even thought it was profound that he would chose him over heaven, suddenly accepting it as a given that they both should just understand, and was treating actually -telling _him_ \- that like an afterthought.

Aziraphale traced the line between them the same way, where he felt Crowley against his own ethereal skin, adding a shell of little golden lights to the mix. With them tracing each other, in themselves, it started to look like their edges overlapped slightly. Crowley made a sound that started like a hum and died softly in a breathless sigh, tilting his head back.

“Do you think...” he seemed to think better of the question before it quite escaped.

“What is it, dear?”

“It's nothing, angel.”  
  


His question had sounded so wistful, already so clearly like hopeless longing, he could not help but insist.

“It didn't sound like nothing.”

Crowley gave him a curious look, as if adjusting to this shift, Aziraphale starting to seek out the things Crowley felt he might not want or need to hear. Then he looked decidedly away, only blushing a little noticeably more.

“It's …” he wanted to brush it off but could not settle on a word to dismiss it, “Just a thought, silly, really.”

“Would you tell me anyway, dear?”

Crowley sighed deeply, hoping the fluttering would fly away on his breath.

“I was just wondering if it could be safe...” he said, working up to it, “To overlap like that.” he finished softly, nodding gently to the lights in the air around them.

He did not have to ask if it was possible, he could feel the boundary between them like a membrane, feel the potential of it to give way, like tissue on the surface of water. He might not be able to sense whatever undefinable energy he radiated in response to some feelings, but when he really paid attention he could feel himself, and he could feel Aziraphale against him, and he could feel him always slipping so softly past him, almost never pressing back, even now that he came so gently meet him.

Aziraphale was taken aback for a moment. If he had expected anything, somehow it was not that.

“Oh.” he said, surprised but warm, “Oh, I... I don't know.” he had to admit.

Aziraphale had, in fact, been exceedingly careful to avoid it ever happening, and had been putting many a spare thought towards it lately due to the spell-work he was looking at. Even when healing him, or embracing him, even when they switched bodies, he had been careful that whatever space or flesh they each occupied, that their celestial selves, never overlapped, never pressed into each other, in case it could hurt them.

“Probably explode though, right?” Crowley said with a humourless little huff of a laugh.

“Honestly, I don't know, but I hardly think it would be worth the risk of hurting you.”

Given how it felt to hold each other this way, and given -even- how it felt to slip past each other when they switched bodies, he imagined it could be very pleasant, especially if they were doing it for that purpose, just to feel each other. Nothing was worth the risk of hurting him though.

That did not help at all. That Aziraphale's concern and top priority was absolutely what the consequences were to him did not at all help him want it any less. It was hard to stop thinking about it, watching the illusion of it around them.

“...Although...” Aziraphale went on, unexpectedly, “If any of those protection wards were ever to be of use to us, I suppose we would have to figure that out.” he considered, “But Crowley, I just couldn't abide by any risk of something happening to you... Either of us, really.”

He had every suspicion in the world he could let the love pouring off of Crowley seep in and it could not harm him, but no certainty whatsoever he could offer that safely, or anything else in return. The fact that such genuine and earnest love was something Crowley could generate so easily seemed like some kind of cosmic anomaly.

Of course that would be where Aziraphale went with it, practical considerations and safety. Crowley sighed.

“...It does sound lovely though.” he added, noting the sad little shift his commentary had caused.

He had not missed the implication that Crowley was wondering if it could ever be safe to be closer together than they already were, for the line between them to seem to bleed into nothing. Now it made sense of why he had to have it dragged out of him. Crowley undoubtedly struggled with emotional vulnerability and intimacy, even before and asides from his own repeated rejections. He wondered what all _was_ tied up in all of the love and affection, that he did not personally have a sense for. He just wanted to understand what would benefit Crowley, what he wanted, and what he needed from him.

Just this moment, that seemed to be being held while he slept. If they played their cards right, they would have eternity to figure it all out.


	7. Guardian angel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm changing the rating to explicit now, because, while this might not count, I feel like it's definitely going to cross that line at some point, and I'd rather people not get invested who won't be interested once it does.
> 
> This chapter's warning is for vaguely sexual content... and angst... 
> 
> I was actually writing the next chapter to come in here, but I realized there were a lot of plot points I needed to cover first with the journals, for reasons... And I hope I'm not wrong about that because this is the closest thing to a plot I have that isn't about them eventually kissing. 
> 
> I'm used to writing a whole fic completely and doing multiple passes before releasing it, so both this and my original fiction being released one chapter at a time is a new experience for me. 
> 
> Your feedback fuels me and I am grateful for each and every one of you for reading.

As far as Crowley was concerned this was heaven on earth, at least, the way humans seemed to conceptualize it. He had never slept so restfully. It was likely the particular flavour of comfort warring with nerves and anxiety that had him wanting to continuously just go back to sleep where everything was warm and safe, uncomplicated, and the exact right place between having all the meaning in the world and being inconsequential. Being warm, comfortable and relieved made him sleepy, but then, he also took naps to deal with being emotionally overwhelmed, or to cope with anxieties he could not face down at the moment. Somehow this was so much of both, it did not surprise him at all that he could barely keep his eyes open long enough to question how long this could last, or how much time was slipping by.

The answer was, after all, as along as they both had the patience for, and Aziraphale seemed surprisingly longanimous. Eventually, feeling slightly ridiculous and not wanting to risk talking, because that would inevitably come with compliments and affection, he rolled far enough away to settle his opposite wing across Aziraphale's lap, now sprawled across the foot of the bed and tangled comfortably in cotton and down.

Aziraphale abided by this with mild amusement, being shushed any time he tried idly to start a conversation. Apparently, now he could not be trusted with words or he would say something too affectionate. It was not all bad though, his silence seemed enough that he could handle all his scapulars and the underside of his wings joints being combed through with only contended humming. Even a firm hand to press all the accumulated tension out of the muscles around his wing joint seemed incredibly welcome. At least until it seemed to cross the line between a needed massage and continuing for the sake of indulging him. Maybe it was more an issue with holding him down too firmly -since he seemed compelled to squirm, but kept insisting he could continue- but either way, he eventually waved him off.

“You'd like me to stop, dear?” he confirmed, before he had to really protest or say or explain anything else.

He laid down next to him, sideways across the bed, and he lifted his wing to let him slip underneath.

“Are your wings sensitive like that?” Crowley asked, finally breaking the easy and amused silence, with an unexpected question.

“I imagine so, under the right context.”

They were sensitive, and with all that nerve crawling he imagined the intent in touching them was highly influential.

“...And are they ticklish?” he asked, in no particular way.

Aziraphale did not like that question at all.

“Possibly.” he admitted without wanting to.

Similarly, they were sensitive, and he imagined it was somewhat context specific. Crowley smirked at him indulgently, but did not move towards him. He just smiled to himself as if making note of it. His wings veiled themselves just outside of perceptible reality again, settling closed as they went.

“Don't you dare.” Aziraphale scolded him pre-emptively.

“What?” Crowley defended, still smiling.

“Find some opportunity to ambush me like that.” he said, as if imagining Crowley was already making plans, scheming, “ I assure you, you are undoubtedly more ticklish than I am, dear boy.”

“Oh relax, angel.” he said, enjoying being able to roll freely onto his back again, “I wouldn't dream of doing anything to you that you haven't agreed to.”

Aziraphale knew that -the moment he heard the words- to be absolutely true. It always had been. He would ask once, offer mostly, but had never pushed very hard for anything, especially physically. Though he could be emotionally demanding on rare occasions. He supposed the one potential -minor- exception to this were the things he settled into that he could not perceive himself doing and which Aziraphale had never bothered making him aware of. His restrained impulses to kiss him were -at this point- still just accidental confessions that he wanted to, on some level. He would ask him about that, some day very soon. Perhaps once they were in private, but no longer letting days pass laying on a bed.

He had, in a sense, started this, a very long time ago. He supposed he had gotten caught up in things, after a very long night of trying to cheer him up. The longer they talked, the more it just felt like they were friends, simple and reserved affection coming easily to them in a very different time. Crowley had been in an awful mood, downright despondent at times, whatever was upsetting him clearly having enough of an anchor to keep pulling him away, through he would not talk about it. Wrapping an arm -or wing- around him and joking with him had seemed to drag a smile out of him, so he kept doing it. He knew he had a tendency to forget himself, his own anxieties and concerns, when his focus was on someone else, especially on helping them. By the end of it -and he really did not know where his head had gotten to- he almost kissed his forehead on impulse.

He stopped himself of course, especially when Crowley completely froze, his energy rushing up around him, as if to hold him in place, suffocating affection suddenly distracting him from all the physical evidence of anxiety and distress that had surrounded Crowley all night. They awkwardly went their own ways after that, not mentioning it, retreating again, but after that point Crowley had been slowly leaning towards him over time, slowly escalating in little loving impulses, and the longer it went on for, the more he had gotten the sense that he was at least somewhat unaware of it, either not conscious of it at all or in some kind of denial. So he had politely not commented on it. It was complicated for him, especially before, it made him worry for Crowley's safety, but he had never minded.

“Of course not.” he said, a sly fondness tainting the little smile more than Crowley was comfortable with.

Crowley had the nagging suspicion he was being called a four -or even five- letter word again; sweet, this time, maybe.

Things were decidedly less complicated, for Aziraphale at least, and he thought they should be able to have whatever affection came naturally to them. Now though, they seemed to be running into it all being complicated for Crowley too, in different ways.

At the moment, what Crowley seemed to have on his mind was either sleeping forever curled up together here, or finding a place that would serve them breakfast at whatever hour this was, and obliging him in either one was all he could ask for.

~*~

They ended up settling on pancakes, or at least a place that would serve them this far past noon. Not crepes, but a charming local option. Considering they had just spent a few days in bed, this seemed like a good balance. It was getting warmer out -seemingly by the hour- but not enough so that a hot meal and hot tea or coffee was not immensely satisfying.

“My dear, you look absolutely ready to go straight back to sleep.”

Crowley had eaten a fair deal of eggs, bacon, pretty much anything that was protein, and looked halfway in a daydream when he was not outright adjusting himself as if attempting to stay aware. He had stopped eating a minute before and slid his pancakes over to him. They were slowly settling back into the mealtime dynamic they used to have, now that Crowley was behaving somewhat normally again, and Aziraphale knew what to blame when he was not, at least generally speaking. He knew by now that Crowley was inconveniently conditioned into sleeping in response to stress, and when he was ready to talk about it, Aziraphale was sure he would know.

Crowley never thought he would see the day that he fell under Azirapale's attention so much more than their meal that enjoying the food seemed like an afterthought, but here they were. He felt like he did not have enough emotional barriers to help him cope with this in public right now. The last few days had left him feeling like he had been stripped bare in some way, and he had overestimated his own willingness to be out around other people.

This was something Aziraphale absolutely had a sense of. The sunglasses could hide is eyes, but they could not do much to conceal the blush that seemed to have decided to camp out permanently between the freckles on his cheeks. Even his body language, though turned ever more towards him, if that was possible, had become slightly more closed off in general, that is, slightly more than very casually spreading out is if London was his back yard. It was a striking enough change for him to have actually noticed.

“Do you gentlemen have everything you need?” the waitress said, checking on them.

She topped up the coffee. He watched Crowley bring his shoulders up, not enough to be an intentional communication of annoyance, but enough that he looked uncomfortable, an involuntary pulling away as if the lights were too bright, or the air was a bit chilly, or maybe all sounds were a bit harsh. Combined with the blushing, to him it seemed obvious he was in some kind of state. He looked, even plainly enough to him -and if he had to put a word to it- like he felt vulnerable. Perhaps being overwhelmed or over-stimulated, to some degree, was agreeable to him in private, but not otherwise.

These pancakes were buttery and fluffy, and they had been served with fresh strawberries and whipped cream. There was no problem with the food at all, it was lovely, which is what he told the waitress. He did not mean to be making him uncomfortable, and he tried to keep his eyes to his own plate, but he could hardly help observe him, when all of his own thoughts seemed quite attached to figuring out what the exact nature of his distress was. He reached one hand out to him, brushing under one finger on the table. Crowley took his hand firmly.

“Are you sure you're feeling alright?” he asked him.

“I told you, angel, I'm fine.” he replied, softly, rather than irritable.

Any time he asked him, he insisted nothing was amiss. Maybe that was part of it, all the contexts in which he got prickly had all shifted around and Aziraphale was trying to redetermine how to read it all. In general he thought it might be best explained by the general shift in context between them, more honest, more affectionate, and no longer having to compromise for anyone but themselves. Much of the shift seemed to be internal to him though, and Aziraphale was thus missing some of said context. Still, he thought he might be more comfortable back at his shop than going to the park.

Ever since that night in the park he had been -among other things- trying to pay more attention to his own vessel, in an attempt to understand what it was like. He was enough in the habit of noticing when his body thought it might be nice to eat, but was also paying attention now to when it might be nice to rest, easy to be reminded to do with Crowley always wanting to curl up to him.

Aziraphale could always just decouple his neurology from the biological function of the body he was given, a trick of divine intervention. Where his cognitive experience would normally -for a human- be expected to translate into biochemistry and back, he -as an angel- was encouraged to opt out of this in order to do his job without distractions. Since learning that Crowley was most naturally inclined not to actively break this bridging between thought and sensation, or was not wholly capable, he had been attempting to recondition himself to listen to his own body the same way, be in it, exist with it in the state it was in at the moment, in some hope it might help him understand him a bit better.

He was not sure how much this had helped him better empathize with Crowley's reactivity, not being an overtly reactive kind of person himself, but he was coming to understand something of how demanding a body was to take care of when you had to -or were compelled to- do everything the way humans did.

They did not need to eat, for example, but doing so was enjoyable, a little flood of endorphins that could influence his mood, his thoughts, and that was nice, but he was coming to understand that -without intervention- not having that dosage of chemistry at regular enough intervals resulted in his body getting cranky, in negative shifts in mood, in discomfort, even if they could not die or become too inconvenienced by it. In time, he could see how not taking care of his body could lead to a steady downwards spiral in mood and cognitive function that -he imagined- would eventually affect his world-view, sense of self and general outlook.

If Crowley had to indulge his vessel -at least in something- in order to avoid this, anything remotely like how a human would have to, he could understand how it could be a lot like having to care for a very fickle and delicate pet; if the state of that pet was directly linked to your own tendency towards positive and negative thoughts and emotions. Aziraphale had the option of experiencing this when it was convenient or fun, but -if he was interpreting this correctly- Crowley could only opt out by a far greater effort of will or energy, requiring attention or focus rather than being passive, in a way that was probably, for some things, more taxing than just taking care of himself the traditional way.

Aziraphale had often seen his tendency towards sleeping as being his vice of choice, but was coming to see it less as wholly a choice of indulgence and more as him simply having needs that any living creature did, emotionally, if not physically; as simple self-care. In that, he was starting to see that painting demons in general as being just wantonly indulgent was probably unfair. If they were all cursed the way he was. It was a strange kind of privilege angels had to not have these needs and look down on demons for having to be accountable to them, to be able to hold themselves above it without much thought and then attach a moral or value judgement to it.

Right now, Crowley looked tired and like he wanted to go home.

“Let's forget about the park for today, dear, and go back to the shop?” he suggested, rubbing his thumb against his hand.

Crowley actually looked surprised, lifting himself to look at him somewhat abruptly. It was not usual for them to interrupt their intended plans, once they had been made, and Aziraphale had been excited to try feeding the ducks something new, that he heard would be better for them. Indeed, he could picture their chubby little feathered tails wiggling excitedly, even now.

“Thank you, angel.” he said, squeezing his hand a bit.

~*~

Aziraphale stood back and cheerily indicated the door, letting Crowley be the one to unlock it, testing out his new key. He seemed very pleased with himself and Crowley could not help but smile. Stepping inside he realized this was the first time he had seen the shop in nearly a week, since he had been away. It seemed, altogether cleaner, somehow, not that anything done to drive customers away had been negated exactly, but there was less dust, and somehow it was even more obsessively arranged. It seemed a touch warmer, if anything, and then there were the plants.

He did not think there were any more than before, but they seemed much more strategically located. Some were moved closer to the limited windows, and many of them seemed to have their own little personal light, mostly red with some blue, added to them. He would have assumed this was some attempt to take care of them, to ensure they got enough light, but it seemed very intentional that they might serve a secondary function, being as there were now large black smooth stones added strategically around most of the pots. They were warm to the touch and occasionally placed more directly under the lights than the plants were. The shop, in effect, was now dotted with places, large and small, where he could curl up comfortably to bask under warm lamps.

Now that he was watching him take it all in, he was becoming anxious about what he thought of it. Before it had seemed a brilliant idea, now he worried it was too much, or not actually helpful, or perhaps even insensitive. Crowley eventually stopped looking around, stood still for a minute and then walked over to him quite briskly, almost losing the saunter entirely. For a moment he was prepared to be hoisted by the collar into a bookcase. Crowley still had his glasses on, but from this close he could tell there were tears in his eyes. He would be worried about what kind they were, but Crowley was already gently cupping his face. He wondered if this would be the time Crowley forgot himself enough, but then Crowley kissed his forehead and held him tightly to his chest instead.

At least he was not so off the mark, given his reaction. Crowley spent a lot of time defensively distancing himself from both snakes and what he himself admitted being a demon meant, around the vulnerable moments where he explained he actually was circumscribed in many ways to what it meant to be both. He could only conclude this meant he was sensitive about it, conflicted, and did not want to talk about it, but whenever he did something to take potential needs arising from those things into consideration, it was met with effusive affection.

It did not quite sit well with him to not have a dialogue about it though, because he did not want to risk overstepping, or doing something well-intentioned but ultimately hurtful or unwelcome, but they were running into an impasse where Crowley both would not ask anything of him, and also did not seem inclined to talk to him about what any of it meant or entailed. Potentially innocuous interior décor decisions were about as far as he was comfortable with guesswork.

“I didn't know if... Well, if it will be of any use to you... or if it's at all right,” he meant that in the sense of being accurate, “I just though, if you were going to be napping in them anyway, that we might try making them more comfortable?” he explained.

Crowley just held him very firmly, burying his nose in his hair. One of his favourite hobbies was napping in the plants and startling customers. Aziraphale had scolded him at first, not on account of driving people off, he was quite into that, but out of fear someone might hurt him. It did not take long though, for the rumours to circulate that the shop owner kept snakes that got out around the shop sometimes, and that he would take your head off if you so much as looked at them funny.

“And I don't want you to just abide by it...” he made his tone firm, “Not just because I-” he did not want to say he went through any trouble, it was no trouble, “Not for my sake. I want to know what -really- suits you.”

If Crowley dared to let go of him, he would be kissing him hotly, and that would hardly be appropriate, given that he did not know if it was welcome. If it would be chaste, a gentle brush, something that could be considered anachronic but ambiguous, if he could approach slowly enough that he would have a chance to protest if he wanted, then he might allow it, but not the way he felt every time the impulse gripped him.

Aziraphale smelled of old books, cologne, the heat of skin and something just a little sweet, and he focused on that. He would never admit it, but it had become something of a grounding exercise for him, counting off notes and trying to name them. All of his smells were recently new again, because smells, like tastes, were different when they were so close and thus still warm off of his skin, and for Crowley those were largely the same sense anyway. He tried very hard to resist the thought that his mouth probably tasted like strawberry pancakes right now.

“You suit me, angel.” he mumbled into his hair.

Aziraphale did not sound as pleased with that as he had hoped, sighing deeply.

“My dear boy, that's hardly the point.”

Now Crowley sighed in the same nearly exasperated kind of way.

“That -is- the point, though. The rest... It's all just details.”

“Oh, Crowley, please...” he lamented, not lacking in abashed warmth.

It really was a very sweet sentiment, but it was getting tiring. He did not think, ultimately, that all the details that made up his sense of comfort and security, or that made up his experiences, or that could affect him so profoundly, so deeply -or affect him at all- should really be brushed off just because they were small things. Them having each other might have been most important, to both of them, but with that condition met, he did not think the appropriate course was to just ignore every potential that could go with that. He was beginning to suspect that Crowley was in the habit of denying himself far more than either of them were entirely aware of.

“There's no point in these things if they aren't something you really want... But I would like to do things for you, dear, if you'll let me.” he suggested, hopeful.

Crowley understood that, and it was exactly the problem. He could not keep saying things that sounded like ambiguous offers to provide everything he had never even dared let himself want, and -more so- he could not keep offering to provide all kinds of affection when the whole point of it really was for Crowley's benefit; it was too terribly perfect. Aziraphale could not possibly know what he was invoking. Crowley himself had made a six millennia habit of not letting himself fully realize it.

Aziraphale supposed there were two main issues here. One was that Crowley seemed to have some kind of shame complex, near as he could tell, about being a demon, or about himself specifically, about wanting or needing some things. The other seemed to be that in order to know what he wanted -of him- he had to know how he viewed the nature of their relationship, and -while they had always been close and he felt like he should not have to ask- he got the nagging sense Crowley himself was not entirely sure. To Aziraphale, love was love and being close was all that mattered now, but to Crowley it seemed like these distinctions might matter far more.

He also suspected there was a great deal of things, potentially traumatic things, to unpack when it came to anything significant to Crowley, and he did not want to force it out of him, but at this point it seemed to be causing him more distress that they did not have a dialogue about it. He recalled him getting angry when he suggested there should be love in how people interacted with him, and he recalled the conversation where Crowley said none of this had to mean anything in particular, and that he kept not kissing him despite the obvious -and now constant- impulse. That was all he really had to go on. Most frustrating and frightening of all was that he could not know how he was affecting him without some of these answers. The last thing he could stand was to hurt him.

~*~

This carried on for another couple months or so, Crowley still denying there was an issue with anything. In his defence, he did make active use of the little basking spots, especially, it seemed, when Aziraphale was not around to see it, being as -when he was there- Crowley seemed to prefer basking in his attention. He had also kept up his habit of almost kissing him, seemingly getting increasingly frustrated with himself, but remaining steadfast in his reluctance to acknowledge it or talk about it.

Aziraphale, needing something else to focus on, set to work trying to track down what he could of the missing journals. Crowley did not seem entirely pleased with this, even once shooing him away from the notion of checking through his own collection. It was probably a lost cause anyway, but he stopped bringing it up and just kept looking. He needed something to do, something to occupy his thoughts with a complex problem that was not entirely wrapped around a conversation Crowley was not ready to have yet.

“I know it stands to reason they'd be lost, or destroyed... but it just seems -odd- that the larger works would all be together in such a carefully kept set, even after all this time, but everything they actively reference would be entirely missing.”

By that -actively reference- he meant notes in the margins, as if to the author themselves, but still. Stranger still was that he could not remember acquiring them or why the journals were not with them. He had broken down and brought it up again.

“Aziraphale, please just let it go.” he whined, seemingly embarrassed by his enthusiasm and obsessive focus.

“But Crowley... You don't agree it would be _perfect?_ ” he cooed, “If it could work...” he added, less convinced, “But we have to do something... They will come for us again eventually, and we don't have a book of prophesy to keep helping us... And if something happened to you and I could have done more to prevent it, I-”

“Oh angel.” he sighed, clearly pained, taking his hands.

“What do you expect to find in them anyway?” he asked, almost mournfully.

“I don't know... Maybe something, some experiment that was done that might give us some answers, even if they didn't think the implications of it were worth publishing otherwise?”

“We can look through... whatever I have... If you think it will help.” he caved in.

“Oh Crowley, that would be lovely, thank you, darling.” he said, perking right back up to open optimism and good cheer.

Crowley looked like he was cursing to himself. He supposed maybe it was all a sore subject. Perhaps his fears about how fundamentally incompatible they were, physically, had rubbed off on him. Given what he had asked -about being able to overlap- he thought maybe it just hurt to put so much focus on something he probably could not have, especially if it would -in theory- grant them lasting security. He really did feel bad bringing it up, but if there was even a chance of finding answers without having to take any risks, he was sure -at least in retrospect- Crowley would think it was worth it.

~*~

When Crowley heard the knock on the door and was still up to his elbows in paint, he panicked. He wiped his hands off very quickly and ran into the other room. It had slipped his mind when he invited him over for dinner, that they were going to go through his books at the next casually presented opportunity. He had gotten too excited that the tomatoes finally seemed to be ripe, something that felt silly now. He needed just a little more time. He needed a chance to explain first, or come up with something. He heard the jingle of keys, a sound that made his heart soar, truly, but also made him curse his own machinations.

He knew they were there somewhere, and he could not risk Aziraphale finding them before they got a chance to talk about it. He did not want to have to lie to him though. He already hated the dishonesty that this had brought between them. Finally he found them, dusty and hidden on a top shelf. He snatched them as he heard the key in the lock, opened his bedroom door as he heard the jingle of it twisting, set them quietly on his dresser and closed the door as softly as possible, before making his way out to an ambiguous location between the painting and the door before Aziraphale could turn around from hanging his coat. A heart-warming flutter clashed with guilt in his chest.

When Aziraphale came in, Crowley seemed a right mess. He was covered to his elbows in paint again and seemed altogether too excited about his tomatoes, flushed. He supposed he had always been excitable though, and after the last time, he could not bear to see his disappointment if the tomatoes were anything less than perfect.

“Well, let's see them then.” he said taking his hands.

For a moment Crowley's eyes went wide, then he took a deep breath.

“And let's get you cleaned up for dinner.” he added, sliding his hands up his arms, feeling the texture of the paint, and watching him blush.

It was as good an excuse as any to show him affection, and for all was prone to protesting and complaining in general, he said nothing about his increasingly ridiculous tendency. Fair trade, considering his habit of almost kisses that they also were not talking about. He made sure the water was warm, and that they got all the paint, even under his fingernails so he could make dinner. They were having eggs, something simple, breakfast in the evening with a light red wine. It would pair well with the tomatoes but let them stand out on their own.

He watched Crowley go to the window and wheel out one of the racks he had built. Now he could see that the side of them facing the window was full of cascading green. It was an herb garden. Now Crowley carefully picked out the right sprigs of green to cook with and use as garnish. The smell was amazing and filled the room the moment the plants were disturbed. His stomach growled.

“Oh, how charming.” he cooed, watching him blush and smile to himself.

Aziraphale wanted to help, but Crowley kept quietly insisting that he had it handled, and Aziraphale was not sure how to help anyway, so he kept him company, around stealing glances at his latest painting. He still seemed to be working more in abstractions, but also seemed to be experimenting with different styles and seemed to be incorporating his inability to see some colours selectively as a stylistic choice, or he was forgetting and did not really care.

“Crowley...” he asked, turning back to him, “When... When you don't see blue... What do I look like to you?”

“Er...The same, really...” he said, less than firmly.

Aziraphale made that subtle, polite face-scrunch that indicated he was not satisfied with something. He did not really want to explain all of this, unsure of how he would feel about his non-human vision most closely resembling tritanopia, except, on account of not being an actual vision deficiency for a snake, the teal-ish tones shifted more towards the green he would benefit from seeing, and the 'blue' light receptors being absent more than just deficient. Really the comparison even only existed for him because he experienced both himself, otherwise he was not even sure his brain would assign the colours it did to the relevant wavelengths of light. He was not even sure his vision compared to snakes any better than it compared to other human bodies.

“Ever try to see your tie out of the corner of your vision, or in light that's too bright?” he asked, “Well it's -kind of- like that... And well... Blue eyes are a trick of the light anyway aren't they? The pigment... T's all yellow and brown either way, really, human eyes. Almost any eyes, really.”

He could hardly volunteer -now- that the subdued beige he wore was often indistinguishable to him from soft pinks. He did not think he would mind the colour as much as Crowley having never told him, or having taken a long time to realize it was not intentional.

“So- When I see my reflection in direct light, and my eyes look grey and yellow... That's what they always look like to you, even at a distance? If you don't correct for it?”

He nodded.

“They are... nice, angel, either way...Always. Whether they're blue or warm grey. And it's always you behind them.” he said, earning a shy smile.

“Well... almost always anyway.” he added with a little smirk.

Aziraphale still remembered, a craving, like touch-memory, in his skin that night, just wanting to be held. He wondered if Crowley would feel that around anyone else.

“So... Despite how lovely your eyes are, and despite seeming so different from mine, they're...”

“Both mostly yellow with a bit of brown thrown in, just shaped different, t's all.” he said, turning something in the pan, “But, you know, when you get right down to it, it's all just a difference in shape, isn't it? The shape of molecules throwing all the light around.”

“Yes, I suppose it is, isn't it.” he said, just before staring into his eyes for far too long, until a pop of oil in the pan startled them both.

Before long, they were seated with their meals and both somewhat nervous. Crowley got brave and tried his tomato first, though he suspected he would only taste tomato. Hoping, really, that he could not taste what he accidentally leached into his plants, because if he could that would likely indicate failure.

“Oh... That's a tomatoey tomato.” he found himself saying, surprised by it himself.

He had imagined home-grown vegetables were much more flavourful than their store-bought counterparts. That was what he had been told, anyway.

“Crowley, dear, I knew you were interested in plants, but I hadn't realized you had such an interest in food preparation.” he remarked absently, procuring himself a bit of his own.

It was at that moment that a number of things occurred to him, one at a time. The first was that all of this, all of these additions to his plants being edible was all probably for his benefit, now that they were starting to share their living spaces. The second, following in quick succession was that these were the best tomatoes he had ever tasted. They were vibrant and perfectly ripe, juicy, only acidic enough to cut pleasantly through the oil of their other food and very sweet, just enough to remind you that tomatoes were -after all- a fruit, but not enough to be in any way excessive or unpleasant, not sugary.

“I- erm.” Crowley looked down at his plate.

They tasted like love, far more than they had tasted like anything before, perhaps especially because Crowley was now firm in his belief that their flavour would reflect the energy put into them. He would not say it was unfortunate exactly that he was also heavily subject to anxiety, because -while it was not entirely comfortable to taste everything else wrapped up in them- the fact that the way they tasted seemed to so honestly and completely reflect how he felt was as charming to Aziraphale as anything could be. Still, if he had been anxious about feelings like shame leaking through a little, he had not been completely off the mark, but an impulse to kiss it all better was not exactly incompatible with his impulses to kiss him for other reasons.

Third -as he looked him over in the light provided by the hanging fixture directly above them, trying to decide where to kiss him- was an answer to a question that had been nagging at him for some time now.

“Oh!” he said, more softly than seemed to befit his level of surprise, “Oh I see.” he said.

Having finally seen so many demons, in their demonic forms, as recently as the night of the apocalypse -that-wasn't, he had started to wonder if Crowley had a state like that as well, one where his creature counterpart was melded to his flesh and visibly protruding, almost, but not quite, like a life-form independent from him. He had thought it odd he had never seen him like that, had seen his human form, and his animal form, but never the demonic between-state that others seemed to have, and he was starting to worry why in six millennia, his friend had never let him see that. Now he realized why.

Crowley's fully demon form probably -was- the snake, and even at his -most- human, the snake -was- present on his flesh. He knew it was not the tattoo many mistook it for, he had obviously had it since Eden at least, and -looking very closely now- he saw, not for the first time, that it was raised like a vein, or an amateur tattoo could be, even if -in this case- it might come off as a clever artistic choice. It was so small, and integrated so closely into him that it almost looked entirely like a part of his skin, and yet it had the appearance, from this close, of a complete snake, in his skin that looked like it could wriggle under it independently at any moment.

Everyone's skin looked almost like it had a scaly pattern if you looked at it close enough, but Crowley's pushed this to uncanniness, if you were looking for it. It was especially visible where his skin was thinnest, though somehow he was never any less soft to the touch for it. If he looked -very- closely, almost indistinguishable from the pattern of his skin, even -knowing- to look for it, the snake seemed to push this even further and actually have very fine scales. It reminded him of the little red-belly; absolutely precious.

He would have liked to ask him about all of this, know what forms he could take that were equally natural to him, if there were others, but Crowley always clammed up a little when he started asking about his experience of anything, especially when it was about being a demon, despite that he seemed to appreciate that he did ask. He had always taken it to mean that it was too personal, at least for them at the moment. Even if they took their time to get to things though, he did hope it would not -always- be too personal. He had kissed him there before, once, and it had been well-received.

“There you are...” he cooed softly, just before kissing the snake on his cheekbone, very gently, as if it really was a snake that small and he did not want to hurt it.

“They're the most wonderful tomatoes I have ever tasted...” he said in absolute sincerity, then his mouth twitched just a little, “Quite possibly the best thing altogether that I've ever tasted.” he said, far too softly and with his breath still far too close to his ear.

White sclera vanished as he stayed close, studying how the tiny scales almost glittered dully in the light, and Crowley turned even more red, sparing him a heated look. It was almost like an accusation of something. He made the mistake of wondering how Crowley would react if he tipped his chin to meet him, and thinking about how he probably tasted like his tomatoes. That was all a bit much for the moment, considering he did not know why Crowley was holding back. Poor thing seemed frozen in place and far too red.

He could swear that under the brush of his thumb the little serpent flattened, looking even more like a simple marking. He withdrew politely with a sad smile and they returned to their meal.

~*~

At the very least, there was not all that much to sort through, to see if anything Crowley owned held a useful reference to the journals that might reveal where they were. He did not have the collection Aziraphale did. He -did- have an interesting collection or two of books he did not know existed, for instance, some hand written by Alistair Crowley.

“Crowley... This isn't -your- hand writing.” Aziraphale confirmed what he already knew, “But did you know him?”

“Well... You know, you tend to notice when some guy is running around, getting into everyone's business, and happens to share your name...” he rolled his eyes as if that fact was exhausting, “Got real sick of hearing about him after a while... Can't say the confusion was always inconvenient though.” he shrugged.

This was slight obfuscation on his part. There was reason Alistair had decided to name himself as he did, and Crowley was aware of it, just as he knew why his work had some small resemblance to that of the texts in question, but he could hardly tell him.

What was interesting to Aziraphale was that there was a thin thread of similarity between some of his work and the books he was looking for, almost as if Alistair had caught a glimpse of the other books. The timeline was impossible, or he would wonder if he had been their apprentice. Maybe there was a connection of lineage, in there somewhere. Still, nothing in the books he was looking at now could hold a candle to the books he already had, not that they were not impressive in their own right, and none of them referenced -in any way- where he might find the journals he was looking for. He thought this was already some miracle, to get this close to a connection, but it just did not seem to go any further.

Just when Aziraphale seemed to completely lose heart, his eye caught on something.

“Not that these aren't lovely books, dear, but I- Hold on.” he paused and tipped up onto his toes to look on the top shelf.

There was something there recently enough that the shape left in the dust was completely clean.

“What did you have here?”  
  


Crowley was red enough that he looked incapable of speech.

“Something personal, I take it.” Aziraphale said for him, with a little smile, either sad or apologetic, he was not sure.

Crowley nodded. It was not dishonest exactly.

“Well, let's turn in for the night then, shall we, dear? he suggested.

It was late after all.

“Movie.” Crowley almost hissed before clearing his throat, “Er- we should watch a movie... I-um know just the one.” he said, making a determined path to the rest of their evening.

Aziraphale looked hurt that he seemed uncomfortable, which he immediately tried to hide for his benefit. It was obvious because Aziraphale was not actually very subtle, and he wanted so badly to explain that it was not discomfort with him. He turned back to take his hand, leading him back to the living area.

“Really, angel, I know it's painfully modern, but if you give it a chance, I think you'll like it.” he said, kissing his cheek.

He was soft and warm, and he immediately smiled against it, the awkwardness of moments before already forgotten. Aziraphale looked at him with so much fondness. He would come up with a way to tell him about the journals, or something equivalent, soon.

“Is it another one of those romantic comedies you like?” he asked brightly.

“Er, well- You could say that.” Crowley winced, not entirely without amusement.

There were very few things he kept from Aziraphale. Almost all of it just the kind of personal things that took time to come to, not really secrets as much as things they had not gotten to yet. The one exception to that was the content of these journals, and the entire ordeal behind them, and it had begun long before there was an expectation that they would come to each other with anything. Admitting to it all now would just be embarrassing, among other things.

He would have to find a way to get any relevant information into his hands without giving him the full context of the journals. Perhaps Aziraphale was oblivious enough not to put the whole picture together with the books alone, even having been there for half of all of it in the first place, but the journals made it rather explicit. He wished there was a way he could just admit to his own expertise on these things without it inevitably amounting to effectively the same thing as just handing them over.

He knew that the journals would not add anything to the conversation that he did not already know, but he could hardly tell Aziraphale that. He had been coming to agonize progressively more about how to tell him, or not tell him, or avoid the issue of telling him, or find a work-around that did not require outright lying or fabrication; as un-demonic as that was of him. Fortunately, finding the books -that they had- seemed to have at least eased him off their trail enough that he appeared to forget about them.

~*~

Movie nights, it turned out, were a wonderful excuse to cuddle, and to subject each other to new things. They had gone to plenty of shows, plays and even more modern theatres, but now that curling up together was an option, Crowley was finally getting to make very good use of his obnoxiously large and sleek flat-screen TV.

“Crowley dear?” Aziraphale asked, stroking his hair and hardly pretending to follow what was on the screen.

“Yes, angel?”

“You -do- enjoy being held like this, don't you?” he asked.

He was fully aware that Crowley had been putting himself in his arms for months now, with slowly increasing enthusiasm as he got more comfortable.

“Angel, for the last time...”

He was ready to tell him off at this point, because he did not know how to make himself any more obvious -indeed, he was laying on top of him again and had decidedly settled there of his own accord, had nearly been putting himself in his lap at this point, more than he could acknowledge- but he seemed to be going somewhere with it this time.

“And you...” he seemed to lose his nerve for a moment, “You like being kissed?” he asked nuzzled into his hair.

“Yes.” he confessed, quickly, quieting against his chest.

“...By me?” he finished the question he was really driving at, quieter than he intended, and poised to kiss his forehead again.

“Whho Elssse?” he hissed against his chest, caught somewhere, almost angry at the question but also turning very red.

“Well, that's rather my point...” he pleaded softly for understanding.

That actually got him to lift up to look at him, despite his failing ability to find words. Of course, if he wanted the attention, he would provide it, but it changed the equation if he abided it from him because he craved affection in general, if that explained his war with himself and seeming discomfort. Enjoying being touched, and wanting it from him in particular, were two different things. Crowley still did not seem to be finding an ability to communicate anything other than glaring at him.

“Well, I- I know what you said about... But I don't imagine there's all that many people you've actually been close enough to, for -you- to be comfortable with anything like this, and I-” he might have been babbling, but he was not sure how else to get him onto the same page, “Oh, Crowley, don't look at me like that.” he scolded him defensively, “It's hardly unreasonable. Especially considering that you keep-”

“Angel.” he interrupted him very quickly, almost covering his mouth just to stop whatever spiral of rationalizing this was, “Angel, it's -nothing- like that.” he said more softly, lowering his hand.

“Why do you think I would want it to be anyone but you?”

It was such a sweet question, and it was tempting to let it rest at that, but the question was not of whether someone preferable was ever available.

“Oh I- Crowley...” he took a breath and tried to reframe it, “Hypothetically speaking...” he waited for his expression to shift to some semblance of patience, “If you could live in an ideal reality, one that would provide anything you could even only -hypothetically- want, there would be someone there to hold you, wouldn't there?” he asked, though it was not a question, “What would they be like, ideally?”

“Oh angel, they'd be you. You exactly...” he admitted softly, before showing more irritation, “Except they'd be holding me and...” he cut himself off, on account of not being any good at saying things out loud without having to process them.

“Oh?” he asked, catching a glimpse of something and raising one eyebrow, “And... What would they be doing?” he asked, in that infuriating shift to calm interest.

Crowley's voice dissolved into a silent hiss as he covered his own mouth and moved to lay back down. Aziraphale did not want to stop him, physically, because he was unsure if he could use words or change form right at the moment, and his hand paused in a soft ambiguous gesture between them.

“Wait, Crowley...” he said, sitting up a little and moving very slowly towards a weak suggestion of taking his chin, “Is that why...?” he asked, tilting his own head to try to get a better look.

Crowley sat back on his legs to let him, then -realizing what he was going to ask- he clamped his mouth shut. Yes, he started losing his voice to hissing when he was too worked up because he lost some control of the shape of his tongue, but he would not, and could not, admit to that at the moment. When he tilted his head away from his hand, Aziraphale did not try to stop him.

“I'm sorry, dear.”

He was curious, and it seemed absolutely precious to him, but he could tell Crowley was shifting from his usual level of reactivity and slight embarrassment, into approaching uncomfortable and something at least akin to shame, and he did not want to push that. He pulled his hands back pointedly to himself, laying back again to give him space. Part of the reason he was asking was a practical concern though, and he thought it would be irresponsible of him not to check. He would wait until later, but he wanted to be sure.

“Crowley, sweetheart?” he said very softly, hands against his own chest, “Can you still... Say anything?”

Crowley glared at him.

“Yesss.” he said, hissing and without any resonance, but still intelligible enough.

Damn him. He was making sure he could still use his ridiculous safe-word if he needed to, so he would not accidentally miss that he could not and push something too far; of all the stupidly, sweetly, considerate, maddening things.

Aziraphale expected that Crowley would eventually collect himself and settle back down, but the longer he watched him -not too intently- the more he seemed to turn red and fold in on himself.

“Wait, what's wrong, dearest?” he asked very softly.

“Aziraphhhal?” he said in a weak hissing tone, “You're -sssure- you're not doing all thhiss -jusst- for me... becausse you thhink it'ss what -I- want?” he asked, shifting even further off of his legs and towards the other end of the couch.

“Oh Crowley, darling, no... Of course the -point- of it is that you enjoy it, but I _love_ holding you, of course I do.” he said, folding his legs out of the way so he could sit closer to him.

He reached slowly to take his hands. Crowley stopped scrambling away from him in slow motion and leaned towards him again.

“And you like kisssing me too?” he asked, getting brave.

“Of course I do.” he smiled softly and kissed his forehead, once and then again as he buried his nose in his hair, “If it's something -you- like.” he amended.

Crowley smiled, encouraging his hand up into his hair, folding in against him. The movie had stopped playing at some point and the room was quiet and dark. It was not long before he seemed like he was falling asleep against his chest. He hoped this was the end of whatever was making him so conflicted.

“Would you like to go to bed?” Aziraphale asked softly.

“Mhm.” he nodded against him, into him.

Crowley had indeed forgotten all about why he had been avoiding them going to his room. You could hardly blame him with all the distractions. See, it had been almost a week and when Aziraphale seemed to stop questing after the journals, Crowley soon forgot about them too, at least in a practical sense. He did not forget about trying to figure out how to tell Aziraphale everything that made the journals complicated, but he did forget about them physically, most specifically where he had left them. He was -after all- the most talented architect of his own inconvenience.

Of course, that night it was dark, and it did take a good long time to be remotely light in a room with such heavy curtains, but eventually there was nothing that could keep Aziraphale from noticing the stack of exactly the books he was looking for, spread out a little untidily on the corner of his dresser.

The moment Crowley woke up he was being showered in effusive affection and thanks, kisses around his face that left him in a stunned blush and words that left his ears ringing until long after Aziraphale had scooped them up; words of all kinds that told him how wonderful he was.

“Oh, I could kiss you.” he said, and then kissed the snake on his cheek instead, very gently.

If Crowley could have had a protest, it evaporated when his voice broke on a wordless exclamation, immediately creating a silent hiss. It was too late, there was nothing he could do short of freezing time and burning them. Tempting as that was, it would upset Aziraphale too much. He would just have to hope that he would understand, when he finally figured it out. At least, it saved him from the daunting task of finding some way around this.

He could not be next to him for it happening though. He could not bear to watch, and Aziraphale's most dramatic reactions -if he had any- always happened in the moment. So he pointed him towards his study, easy to do when he was so eager to open them up, and was soon left alone in bed with a promise of getting something nice to eat together the moment he was done looking through them. A whine in his throat later, he immediately lapsed into anxiety induced napping.

~*~

Crowley found himself sitting on the couch with Aziraphale, though, he could not remember how he got there. He did remember -being- there, though maybe not as high on his thighs; usually he was more careful about that. He remembered the questions he was asking and losing his voice.

He was faced with that simmering curious look again, but this time his hand did settle to cup the side of his face, soft but with intent, his other coming to his lower back and pulling him in close, gentle but too firm to resist. He thought maybe he was going to kiss him, but his thumb brushed firmly over his lips instead, not stopping him, this time, but feeling them. His eyes followed, pupils dilated, even more than they usually did, turning the blue-grey of his eyes into sharp rings, reminding him of a bird of prey. Human eyes did not do that. He could not remember if his were supposed to.

“Let's see it then.” he cooed indulgently, his thumb pressing in.

The gesture was not cruel, but lascivious, sliding his thumb gently between his lips to press gently on his tongue.

“What a lovely tongue.” he purred, outright lustfully, stroking his thumb gently along it, making it curl around him on reflex.

Crowley realized he was still moaning when we woke and the sound died in his throat. He just hoped to whoever could hear him that Aziraphale had not. In a strange twist, he hoped he would be distracted enough reading those journals that the sound did not register. As quickly and as quietly as possible, he hid himself in the bathroom, which was -thankfully- on suit.

~*~

Aziraphale was -in fact- incredibly distracted. The familiarity of it was already nagging at him, but there were plenty of vaguely plausible explanations for this; no reason to jump to conclusions. He knew he was not the only angel who was tasked with this kind of thing, and it seemed an overly human thing to do, to assume his experience was largely unique. How married he was to that sentiment, however, may have died a quick death.

The author said very little about themselves, but they spoke -occasionally fondly- of someone they knew, in the margins of the page, who was tasked as he had -not so occasionally been- with smiting select humans for getting in the way of the divine plan, or to further it. They wrote, in a language long forgotten, remarks openly spiteful, about their companion's apparent crisis of faith, and their anger at this being forced on him by his superiors.

It was hard to read. He kept slipping into his own memories of a similar time, making it hard to focus. He remembered uncomfortably, the way he was willing to rationalize harm to the humans for the sake of the great plan, even at his own great discomfort, right up until he was asked to do it with his own hand. He felt like a hypocrite, rightly so, to justify harm done to the innocents he was supposed to love and protect, right up until he had to admit it to someone else's face, or until the blood was going to be on his own hands. Crowley had openly shamed him for this, as he should have. So often it had been Crowley who had made him take a critical look at the horrors before him.

He saw such a sentiment reflected in these notes too. Given that all of the speculation and spell-work had to do with warding humans from the sight of his stock, he had to assume the author's companion was an angel, if not a particularly conscientious demon; it really was that vague, at first. They spoke of feeling the need to take the choice out of his hands explicitly because they thought there was such risk of him defaulting to choices he would later regret; or that it was -hoped- he would, that he could entirely become the kind of person who would openly regret these things. They wrote of how they could let him be tested with it, until he made his choice, but that they did not think it was fair to set him up that way, or to the people he was being set on.

He had pointedly ignored his own suspicions that Gabriel was putting him up to it, of all the angels who could have been handed these tasks, intentionally and specifically because he knew it would be cruel, because he was convinced Aziraphale would eventually follow through, with the right justification and pressure, and that it would nip his growing tendency to question authority in the bud; because it would break him.

Reading the author openly voice a similar sentiment as if they knew it to be the inarguable facts of the situation was making it hard to keep his memories entirely separate from what he was glimpsing in the margins. Even the fact that the author themselves suspected their friend would eventually bow to authority and be left compromised by it cut as deeply as facing that it had been a real possibility for himself.

They wrote of how they wanted to approach him, had even tried to at times, but they were clearly conflicted. Some notes were kind laments, others bitter, some cursed his superiors for obviously toying with him, others cursed him for letting them. Their companion, though they hardly seemed acquainted, was -as he had been- unable to reconcile fully with his expected role, between what was being asked of him and who he felt he was supposed to be, and the author was in some kind of private, distressed outrage about it. They also seemed in some private and distressed outrage at themselves -for that- though. They threatened on paper to give the whole thing up, but had clearly continued this private mission anyway.

These notes were born and died in the margins. Beginning to make a relevant note, spiralling off topic and then dying when the feather ran dry. Before the end of the first journal, it only took him hoping their friend had been spared these tasks as he had been for the pieces to start falling undeniably into place. He came to slow certainty about it the way he tended to with most things.

Aziraphale remembered being at war with himself over it, arguing himself in circles in abandoned structures, old and forgotten even in ancient times. After agonizing over it until it become a non-option, until it was smite or be punished, his mark -though he cringed having to call them that- had seemed to vanish from the face of the earth, presumably deserving to have gone to hell after all, as they could not be found in heaven either.

The first time he had counted himself lucky, just relieved to be done with it. The second time he found it strange, the third, fourth and fifth he had counted himself blessed and stopped questioning it. After that they had stopped asking it of him, somehow dissatisfied or mistrustful of his involvement, though he had not been able to determine why, given that the people they wanted dead, did -in fact- appear to be dropping off the face of the earth. Now he was coming to see all the cogs that had been turning behind the scenes.

He thought he had been ranting in broken and empty halls, open to the sky and yet still private in any way that mattered. He thought he may as well have been thanking the wind, if it was not God herself intervening. He had voiced his suspicions out loud, though whispered to himself like secrets, once even speculating to the walls on whether an angel could have something like a guardian angel themselves. He did not know who he was speaking to, but he felt very much less alone, especially when it started to seem someone was listening after all. He could see now, in these notes, that someone had been. Of course he hardly would have noticed whether Crowley was among the snakes in the desert sand. They had hardly known each other at the time.

“He speculates I am an angel to him. Sweet, naïve. If only he knew...” in some phrasing, might have nailed in his certainty.

If that did not, the reference to him no longer having his sword to smite with anyway would have. He read through the rest fully assured of who's hand it was in, now scanning for the notes in the margins more than for answers, his heart breaking a little more with each one.

The notes were not overly revealing, for the most part. Mostly it was in the dedication, the outrage at an unfair system -as if it struck an emotional chord that was all too personal- and at Gabriel, on his behalf, and even in the fact that he had kept it all hidden from him this entire time. The writing turned briefly back to personal, the spell-work mostly fully explored, before they left off, speculating briefly about whether he would have to act again or if Gabriel had given up his game, wondering on paper if there was sense or safety in assuring him somehow that these people were safe, telling him that he had not equally damned them by inaction. That was where making exceptions in the warding came in, but if Crowley made himself an exception he would be signing his work, and if he made Aziraphale an exception it would be as good as confessing all of this to him and only leave him with the same hard choice over again. So he had set them lose in the world, unobservable to all involved.

It was not -just- some great act of service to him either, though there was certainly that. The notes also made it apparent he was in the habit of subverting the will of heaven and hell to protect those he saw as innocent, even at great risk to himself. There were hints of stories in here that had nothing to do with him. He should not have been surprised really. Crowley always thought about and felt things far more deeply than he let on, often even to himself, and had always been protective, especially of children.

He could not even accuse his dramatic language as histrionics, since it seemed very apparent he was never intended to find these. If he had even decided after the fact to use it for any kind of agenda, or approval, he hardly would have sat on it for thousands of years, past the end of the world and tried to keep it hidden even now. It seemed apparent that he never wanted him to know, not wanting him to feel indebted, or obligated to anything. It was obvious enough even from the very broken stream of consciousness, Crowley -in this- having had a tenancy to just stop writing mid-thought, presumably when he got too close to putting something on paper that he did not want to, or did not want to process at all, sometimes fading out with the ink dying, sometimes abrupt, when he caught himself.

All of this only dug and needled it into his core how Crowley had gone out of his way for him, specifically to enable him to be the person he wanted to be, from the very beginning, before he had anything to gain from it, and even when he was convinced he did not. He realized he may have been crying a little. What a sweet, clever, lovely, maddening creature, and more precious to him than anything.

Nothing was dated, but -given the timeline he knew- it all seemed to stop shortly before or after they met in Rome, the last note really seeming like a sudden shift in sentiment, if not certainty. When he had found Crowley there he had been defensive, and in a terrible mood. Crowley had tried to brush him off. Given the impulsive scribbling, he wondered if this had been something of an act, also for his benefit, even if it had seemed so genuine at the time. Something in that shaky scribbling broke his heart.

“I can't stand to be around you, angel. It feels too much like falling- I remember too sharply what happened when I crashed down last time- I don't like that you being the only thing I feel like I can hold on to feels so much like I'm dragging you down with- It's not what you-” the writing got more erratic and faint, running out of ink, until it just stopped.

Apparently dipping his feather to keep writing this confession was enough to make him realize he was doing it, and stop himself; for the last time. The rest of the pages were blank.

He had to assume their entire dynamic had evolved significantly since then. He had to hope. Still, he thought of Crowley in the other room, and realized -perhaps far too late- he was probably in some kind of awful panic. It had been hours. He hoped he would find him napping, even as that thought was cut through by his awareness of his surroundings coming back to him, accompanied by the sound of running water.

~*~

Crowley hissed as he stepped under the warm water, and it flooded over his back. He knew it was a cold shower that was supposed to help but he had never been able to stand them; he lost body-heat too readily and it pained his skin. This was too wonderful though and he bit his lip to keep himself quiet, not daring to move the rest of the way under the water. His nerves were far too sensitive and raw. He swore to himself quietly on repeat like a chant.

Aziraphale knew about the journals, and would -if he had not already- realize who had written them and why. It was not exactly damning, especially for a demon, though he was sure the context looked compromising, and he knew it would be painful to read. He had never intended to spy on him any more than he had that evening in the park. He had been deciding whether or not to approach him and his own indecision about it had decided things for him; the first time. He had no idea what he would think though. He could not remember what he had written exactly, and the only reason why he had not burned them long ago was in case he needed to reference his notes again for any reason, but he was certain he had slipped and committed something far too personal to paper.

Above all, and especially at this point, he was afraid of Aziraphale feeling guilty, or of it influencing or pressuring him in some way. He never wanted to have his attention just because he felt obligated and that had never changed, and was doubly true now. Aziraphale always seemed like he could easily rationalize himself into dedication and loyalty, but he only wanted those things if they were given freely. If he manipulated him into them it would never feel right; it would eat away at him.

Above all he had to get his hormones under control. This was never this much of a problem before, but of course he knew why. Of course it was all the affection and the touching. Any time his hormones had acted up previously, he was not constantly being reminded of what his arms felt like wrapped around him, or what his lips felt like pressed to his skin, or being held and told how loved he was and how Aziraphale only wanted to shower him in whatever attention he wanted. He had not even known what these things felt like at all, and any mental slip or dream had been blessedly abstract for it; until now.

He did not think Aziraphale really understood what he could want if he let himself, or just how complicated it was. He could try to explain, but that seemed needlessly mortifying and he was not sure he could; physically, with words that he would have to get out in a meaningful order. He also did not want to risk what it could do to him if he had to confess everything about why this was hard for him. Physical intimacy just was not worth the damage it could do to him, the way it could twist him up if he knew. Not that staying quiet about it was uncomplicated.

He hated that his body was responding this way. He did not care if it was normal or natural. He considered doing what he could to work it all out of his system, but doing so had only ever left him feeling hollow, empty, often depressed. It also did not seem quite right to encourage himself to lust after him. There it was. Crowley swore to himself, though it came out a distressed, tearful hissing, swallowed by the shower with everything else.

He also could not continue -not- explaining. For one, Aziraphale seemed increasingly paranoid, or convinced, he was doing something wrong for Crowley to be in such a state. For another, he could hardly let him keep touching him if he did not know he was starting to respond this way; though -in all the internal honesty he could afford himself- he was not sure they had not already discussed as much. He was probably incredibly obvious -possibly to Aziraphale even more than himself- having never been nearly as smooth as he thought or hoped. Aziraphale had, after all, made sure he had a safe-word, and he was starting to think they were both idiots because all of the implications behind that still seemed ambiguous to him. At least consciously anyway; his dreams were making quick work of something. His nerves, for a start.

It felt like the steam was getting to him, and the warm water was too much of a gentle caress against his skin. He was getting dizzy, shaking, he could not even let the water touch him there at this point, and Aziraphale was here, he would hear him. His hands could only hold back so much sound, the water only drown out so much. So far he had managed to keep his voice to quiet whimpering, hands burying his face from imagined view. At least in here no one could see him struggling like this, but at some point he would have to leave and Aziraphale would likely be waiting to talk to him. He had to turn the water colder just so he could breathe.

The cold water hurt. It ached and burned in his skin, turning gentle caresses to needling pain, like he knew it would, his circulation trying to clamp shut against it, but the sounds that pain made were also carried away by the rushing of the water, taking everything out of him and draining away. He realized this had been a bad idea the moment before his knees gave out. Fortunately, the moment he was not aroused any more, he turned into a snake -something he should have predicted- making his fall quiet and relatively impact-free.

Unfortunately, already being dizzy, anxious, cold and exhausted, and now entirely cold-blooded in a cold shower and unable to reach the tap or move very much, was all far less than ideal. It did not really help how small he was feeling at the moment either. He did at least manage to coil himself mostly out of the water in the bottom of the tub, before his mind filled with abstract memories of cold rain in the desert.

~*~

Aziraphale came back to the empty room to realize he had probably been hearing the shower for some time. Either he had been in some haste, or just felt comfortable enough to not lock the door -though he suspected the former- because the door was just slightly ajar. Not that a lock could stop him. He held the handle when he knocked so it would not push it open.

“Crowley, dear?” he asked, trying to be heard over the water without yelling enough that he might scare him.

Silence.

“Crowley, please answer me.” he tried a bit louder.

Only the sound of running water.

“Darling I need you to say something so I know you're okay.” he tried again, as loud as he dared.

He tried to count how many seconds it had been, since suspicion started nagging at him, how many precious seconds he might be wasting on caution.

Now he was worried. When he had suddenly felt the affection from him diminish, he though he had just fallen back into dreams, or that it only meant a change in mood, he did not like that he was not responding, either verbally or emotionally to anything he said, and even less so paired with the relentless and uncaring sound of water running. He knocked rather rudely on the door, waiting one last second before opening it and stepping carefully inside.

“Crowley?” he asked loudly, eyes closed for a moment in one last attempt to save his decency if nothing was wrong or if he was just being dramatic, already moving forward because he was already panicking.

Opening his eyes, the room looked empty. He liked that even less.

“Crowley!” he pleaded with the cold hard room around him, already searching for him, reasoning that if he could not see him, he was at least probably a snake and thus there was little worry of seeing him naked.

The water slamming shut registered somewhere in the cold and wet fog of grey. Crowley did not know why Aziraphale sounded so distressed, but he tried to go towards him in the sand, his body felt so stiff and slow though. He wondered if a cold puddle of rain had leached in around him as he slept. That was no good. He could not get to him with his body like this.

Aziraphale was ready to start frantically trying to heal him, ready to pray, ready to do anything he had to, but -reaching out- his ethereal body brushed his and he knew he was still there, the brush of his hand on smooth scales telling him that he was just very cold. He was alive, but he did not know what state he was in otherwise. Carefully, he worked his hand under him to lift him, using some minor miracle to keep him still, not wanting to move him very much while he was so cold. He was small again, and this was a terribly compromising way to be found, and Aziraphale already felt awful.

“Oh darling...” he said mournfully, holding him close.

“How did this happen?” he asked no one but himself, already convinced this was his fault somehow.

He laid down carefully on the bed so he could set him down on his chest without jostling him. They had already been in their pyjamas, so it was no big thing to tuck him in against his chest, under the flannel of his shirt where he could be warmed slowly back to body temperature. He folded his aura in against him as gently as he could. Crowley was not even conscious to ask what the best way to do this was, or what he would prefer, but he was certain it was best to do it gradually.

Crowley woke slowly from all the feather light touches and the warmth of skin, consciousness synonymous with embarrassment. He felt Aziraphale's hand over his back, still trembling from trying to be as gentle as possible, and he was so warm. The skin under his was hot, and he knew it was just that he was still cold, but it felt so nice. He buried his head under himself, to feel the warmth under his chin, to be as close to him as possible, and to hide himself. Now that he moved he felt Aziraphale sigh deeply, clearly relieved, as he was lifted and rocked gently by it.

“Crowley?” he asked, soft and hopeful, “Please be alright, darling...” he pleaded, earning a little flick of tongue out from between his shy coils.

“I'm sorry, dearest.” he said softly, “This must have been so stressful for you.” he said tearfully.

“I had no idea.” he said, resting his hand on him with slightly more confidence, “Maybe I should have known... I should have known _something_.” he lamented.

A small tail tapped his chin gently, asking him not to go off on some self-depreciating tangent.

“I understand.” he said, after a long moment, “Why you couldn't say anything... Why you didn't want to.”

He did not want to break into complimenting him too much, or anything that could be construed that way, because he would rather he turn back as quickly as possible, so he could be absolutely sure he was okay. There was so much he wanted to say to him, but it would have to wait.

“I'm not upset, with you, if you were worried about that at all.” he offered him, hoping it would help, “Oh, how could I be?” he said, trying not to cry again.

He had a nagging suspicion that his ability to create speech depended to some degree on his size among other things. He did not think this size allowed for it, not a voice he could hear anyway, and -much to his own distress- he did not think Crowley being so small was a choice this time, more than an emotional reaction. He could more than understand being embarrassed to be found like that, or by him finding the journals, especially someone so prone to it. He hardly knew how to help whatever state he was in, if he could not communicate what that was.

As much as Crowley wanted to stay hidden, he also wanted to plaster himself against the heat of his skin. Now that he was conscious it was uncomfortable being so cold. At least when he was a snake it was not so awkward to seek so much contact, not really being quite the same thing, contextually, or otherwise. This way he could be covered in warmth from his nose to the tip of his tail and it was so lovely. He did not actually want to face changing back. They had to talk about this and he knew it. Instead of considering it, he unfolded himself to curl against him, thankful snakes did not purr. He had felt like he was dying of embarrassment enough for the night.

“That's it... Let's get you warmed up.” he cooed to him, covering him gently with his hand.

If nothing else, for now, the love pouring off of him and his subtle movements, his breathing, was enough to assure him that he would be okay. He certainly was not going to sleep, but he thought it best if he let Crowley.


	8. Of holy water and hellfire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They finally get to discussing some fairly heavy subject matter. It's not exactly explicit but I would not recommend mental exercises in considering what it really means to be a demon.
> 
> There's still more to be explained of course, but I think this outlines the nature of most of it. I would rather get through it all without having to get into explicit details, but if there are any, for context reasons, I would like to put warning tags in the fic surrounding the scene if I can, so people can chose to skip that if it comes up.
> 
> So your WARNING for this chapter is them getting to that whole DISCUSSING THE HISTORY OF SEXUAL TRAUMA.
> 
> They do get to discussing that but they don't get to fully unpackage everything about it yet, what it means exactly or how to proceed, so I'm not sure this counts as fully resolved in this chapter, but they will be addressing what all of it means for them going forward.
> 
> And other than that, mostly they have strong feelings about each other and can probably be accused of nesting at least as much as any people do when their stupid fleshy brains flood with bonding hormones for some reason.
> 
> There is a lot to unpack here... and we're probably going to unpack it.

Aziraphale was worried for a moment, when he started to change shape, wondering what the implication was of having been in a state of undress when he found him -probably, assuming he was not bathing clothed- and started looking around for a spare sheet, just in case. He was quickly greeted with black satin though. Crowley always summoned his clothes onto himself when he took shape anyway, and this seemed no different. Even in his sleep he seemed to settle on his silky pyjamas. It was less awkward that way, but also made him wonder if he ever summoned clothing to himself when he change in his sleep that was out of another time, perhaps wherever his dreams had strayed to.

His fingers were still cold and he gathered them up to his chest. To think, his first and most profound outright act of service to him and he had kept it hidden all this time. Even if it really was something he happened upon, or never meant to embark on, the fact that he had seen him struggling and felt an imperative to help, was really very sweet. There was so much to unpack there, not least of all how the hell -or heaven- he had ended up unconscious in cold water. He did not think he would do something that risky just to get his attention, though he had outright accused him of it before, feared it, he did not really think that he was actually that purposefully self-destructive; at least he hoped.

He could hardly blame him for having doubts, about him, about it being safe to get close to him, especially back then. Aziraphale knew he had been a mess of rationalizations, and of course that left Crowley conflicted. It did sting to read though, especially witnessing how someone he cared about could see it all so plainly and be hurt by it. Despite all this, Crowley was acting like he was the one ashamed. Ashamed to the point of -what- he still did not know. Feeling him nuzzle into the heat under his chin in his sleep was the most comforting thing in the world. His fingertips warmed in his and curled gently against him, holding his hand or curing around his collar, whatever they could reach.

“I love you so much, darling.” he whispered to him, desperately, kissing his hair.

“Aziraphale.” he whined in a tired sigh, barely awake.

“Are you warm enough?” he asked softly, trying to control his voice.

Crowley hummed contentedly, which he took to be an affirmation. For hours now, he had been occupying himself with watching him and making sure he was okay, with checking him over and warming him gently. There was only so much he could distract himself this way now that he had stopped panicking, only so long he could keep himself from processing to not interrupt Crowley's needed rest.

Somewhere it registered how absolutely attentively and possessively he was being held, maybe even the slight shake in his voice.

“What's wrong angel?” he asked him, so sweetly, still sleepy.

Aziraphale did not really want to interrupt that with everything he was feeling at the moment, but it hardly made sense to keep trying to pretend he was not holding himself back from tears.

“Crowley, I don't even care -how- it happened, don't you dare -ever- let something like that happen again.” he scolded him, holding him tightly to his chest, “That was dangerous, Crowley.”

The moment his grip loosened, Crowley lifted himself a bit to look at him.

“I didn't -let- anything happen.” he said, in something akin to agitation.

“Of course not...”

“It was an accident.” he interrupted firmly, turning red, looking hurt.

“Well, I have to make sure, don't I? It would be irresponsible of me not to... If you ended up hurt because of me, even because of how I made you feel, I-”

“Not everyone who faints in a shower is doing it because they're s- self destructive, or- bloody- seeking attention.”

He was shaking and red now, but it did not seem like anger, he pulled himself back, trying to sit up.

“Oh darling, I'm hardly accusing you of histrionics... And even if it was to get my attention, I could hardly blame you.”

“'Course not... Demon. Expected isn't it?” he spat with venom, before folding in on himself a little and staring decidedly at the covers between them.

“Crowley, sweetheart, no. Quite the opposite, really...” he insisted, taking his face gently in his hands, “Not because of you dear...” he looked away with a regretful sigh, “Because if it _did_ take ever-escalating displays of emotion to get me to recognize that you -have- them, after all this time, I could hardly blame -you- for that.”

Crowley seemed to stop shaking at least, processing what was being said. He was not sure what he was saying was exactly right or fair either, but he could not quite put his finger on it at the moment.

“You -are- dramatic, but darling, you feel everything so strongly and I don't want- You can't think that honestly displaying your emotions is synonymous with some kind of manipulation.”

He would ask where he had learned that, but it was undoubtedly the rhetoric about demons and having been accused of it any time he did show strong emotions, explicitly because demons were seen as unfeeling, manipulative and petty. He had probably accused him of it himself many times, not really considering the implications of it.

“I don't want you to think you have to hide how you feel. Not from me.”

He felt Crowley's fingers come up to gently trace over the backs of his hands. If he was not looking away uncomfortably himself, he would be able to look into his eyes again.

“I have to admit I really haven't been the best at listening... And lately you haven't really been...” he seemed to fold on himself a little, “At least I thought it was recent...” he lamented, holding him so gently it hurt.

He hated the thought that he might have ever made him feel like he was not allowed to express emotions without being accused of dramatics or impropriety. More so, he was concerned by the fact that Crowley would not talk to him about everything that was clearly bothering him, now that their walls were supposed to be down and they had run out of excuses, or that he seemed to feel the need to hide so much of himself to make him comfortable.

“Crowley... How many times in our history have I thought I was alone, even when you were right there for me?”

Crowley's expression was immediately a plea not to make him answer that. It was more times than he wanted to admit to. Mostly, he never wanted to admit to the contexts, or how much of a disaster he always managed to make for himself.

“I'm beginning to think the arrangement was just an excuse to be able to ask me what I wanted help with, to not _have_ to hide it, and that the reason you didn't care about the risk to you was because you...” his eyes welled with tears, “Because you were already on the hook if they ever found out...” he said, voice shrinking more.

“For me, Crowley, even when I was too stupid to be able to see it, even when I said terrible things... And you never even -told- me, and you haven't been telling me what's wrong and you're upset and... And Crowley, you were so small and _cold,_ and _stiff_... And I-”

Now Aziraphale was absolutely in tears. Inconsolable, actually. It was the last thing Crowley wanted, and yet easier to deal with than him holding him in his lap and cupping his face like that.

“Darling, I was so scared.” he sobbed, the weight of it all crashing on him at once.

His greatest fear had always been that something in his nature would eventually destroy him, and he had just suffered a very real scare that it had actually somehow come to pass. It may have been as indirect as a fear of judgement or rejection he had seeded in him, or some other distant abstraction, but -undefined or not- it felt somehow the same as his own hands burning away at him. Not only that but that it was in a way he had never even seen coming, that he was not told about; that he could not have known until it was too late. Crowley held him very tightly.

“Damn it, nononono no, angel, it's nothing like that... I-uh...” he sighed.

He could not let him keep thinking this was some kind of depression or carelessness, but he could hardly admit to what it had been. Still, he could not weigh his own embarrassment against Aziraphale's self-image. He tried to get his attention periodically until he calmed down some.

“I was in the shower because I-er, had a... dream.” he admitted, hoping it was enough, a hot -traitorous- blush he could feel across his nose -trying- to give him away.

Aziraphale seemed to become just slightly distracted from falling apart around him.

“Wait, so it didn't- Didn't have anything to do with me? With finding the journals?”

Poor thing seemed so embarrassed to have messed up this way, he was so red. He was sure needing to be rescued from a shower was just mortifying. Aziraphale still did not understand how he could have forgotten that he cannot take cold showers, but then maybe they were okay if he was human-shaped but he had gotten unexpectedly emotional. Maybe the water had just run cold before he could notice. He thought maybe he should spare him and let it go.

“Nuh... Nothing to do with the journals, nope...”

“Still...” he breathed, going back to holding him tightly, “I haven't been at all fair to you, darling...” he cooed, pulling back to look at him, taking his chin in hand.

“You're so sweet and so very clever... And you've been -my- conscience since the very beginning. Always whispering in my ear, everything I need to keep me kind... All the right questions.”

“Umf.” Crowley's throat whined without his permission.

“And... Wait, you aren't- You aren't having nightmares again, are you?” he asked, gently tipping his chin to look at him, “About me?” he added, forgetting to display any hurt completely in favour of concern.

Crowley whimpered almost audibly, but certainly enough to notice, a complete failure of his voice to find words. His eyes were big and round and entirely golden yellow, and he seemed to be frozen and trembling. Aziraphale felt the air leave his lungs. Pulling his hands back behind him, he leaned back.

“Crowley... You aren't- you aren't afraid of me, are you dearest?” he asked softly, a pain like guilt apparent on his face.

“No.” he jumped, grabbing the front of his pyjamas and pressing their foreheads together, “Angel, no. It's nothing like that at all.” he assured him, his voice losing force as he went.

“Well something is making you uncomfortable, dearest, and if it -isn't- me, then I don't know what to make of this... You don't seem ready to explain it, and I wouldn't want to force the issue, but I- I don't want secrets between us... Not any more” he pleaded, “Not even if you think it's something I wouldn't enjoy hearing very much.” he spoke softly, politely between them, fingertips hesitant to come back to his chin.

Crowley was doing that thing where he seemed like he might kiss him again. It was tempting to let him, but he did not know how it might affect him and if he still would not talk to him about it, that would be a serious problem.

“Please, dearest, tell me what you need.” he asked, trying to make eye contact, nuzzling back but keeping himself out of reach.

“It's not a -need- angel.” he rejected, instinctively, never quite actually trying.

He hated anything to do with anything like this being called a need, though he knew that was not what he meant, and that he might not even realize the context. Crowley hated it for the same reason as every woman who had ever confided in -him or her- about it. He wondered, with a stab of anxiety, if he may have given himself away, though he was not sure either of them had any compass at all for things like implication or intimacy.

“Well, want, then.” he corrected himself.

No response really came other than a vague speech-like noise and eventually a very subtle tug, despite that he tilted his own chin away to nuzzle at his nose instead.

“Crowley, dearest...” he warmed himself up to it very quietly, not able to miss all of the implications flying around, not all at once, “Would you like me to kiss you?” he asked, accidentally whispering.

The more he thought about doing it, about how much it really seemed like he would enjoy it, the more it seemed like it would be lovely, and it was hard not to think about it when he kept grabbing him like this. Crowley turned scarlet, but immediately made a pained sound and dragged himself back.

Of course he wanted to say yes, more than anything. He had slipped beyond being able to deny that.

“I can't ask- and I... It's complicated, angel.”

That was not anything new, but at least it was newly acknowledged, out loud, with words. He seemed to at least be conceding to the fact that he kept trying to kiss him and that there was something to talk about.

“You'll explain it to me, though?” he asked, hopeful, “When you're ready?” he went on, now taking his hands.

Crowley nodded, maybe finally accepting that he actually wanted to know. Maybe it was obvious that it was a lot.

“And for now, you'll try to tell me what you would like? What you -are- comfortable with?” he asked, though he thought they had been over this, hoping he might get some kind of concrete communication out of it this time.

He nodded again.

“You -really- will, dearest?” he pleaded.

It was fair he kept agreeing to a sentiment like this and then being vindictively agreeable about everything, but would not ask for anything. He just could not bring himself to request anything that was not being freely offered, having some suspicion that he would do it just because it was asked of him, because he felt it was owed, and when it came to affection, he did not want that. Everything he had ever had the displeasure of being expected to encourage in people had to do with how they took and pressured things from each other, so long as they got away with it, so long as the repercussions were not personally affecting enough. He could not stand for something so petty to come between them.

“Angel...” he sighed.

“Crowley, I mean that.” he said, stroking his cheeks gently with his thumbs, “Darling, it's so nice, being able to do things you'll like... But I can't just go assuming things, now can I?” he said, giving him a look that was a little bittersweet and kissing his forehead tenderly.

Even if he did make assumptions about the exact nature of their relationship or how Crowley saw him, that was hardly equivalent to acts, or where his boundaries should be. Crowley just seemed to melt in his hands slightly. At least that helped his confidence, if nothing else, that he at least liked being held like this. Still, the longer he held him, the more he seemed to soften into him, and he was not sure that was what he really wanted at the moment.

“Crowley, sweetheart? I-” he took a breath, letting him go gently and straightened up a bit, “I'd like you to ask me for something... Something I haven't offered.”

Crowley's hand paused half way to hooking his fingers back into his shirt despite himself again. He wondered if he was really that obvious, or if Aziraphale was testing a suspicion.

“M-Wha?” he attempted speech, again with the vague impression of blinking in the way he stared at him.

“It... Well, it doesn't have to be anything in particular, just... Anything.”

Crowley took a long time thinking about things that he was not thinking about, cataloguing an escalating list of things he was certainly not thinking about having Aziraphale do, promptly backing back out of every momentary mental slip he was not having. He tried to refocus the thoughts he was not having on something more ambiguous and productive.

Finally he settled on something. It was not exactly -not- intimate, and it certainly carried far greater reaching implications that either of them were letting themselves consider, but he had also spent a lot of time almost asking it already. It was fair play and almost assuredly something he would consent to.

“Angel... The next time I preen you... Could I keep any of the feathers that you shed?” he asked quietly, eyes on the bedding between them.

“Of course... I'm not sure what you would want with them, but of course you can.”

“Don't know what I would?... Angel.” Crowley was giving him a stern look, “Why is it that you wanted mine then?” he cocked one eyebrow high, and Aziraphale got the vague sense of being circled even though he was quite still.

“Don't be silly, your feathers are _lovely_ and, well, they were a part of you and I just- well, they seem a little too precious to just... Oh.” he stopped when he realized he was answering his own question, “Oh that's... That's hardly a request though, dear.” he deflected, blushing.

It really was only a fair turn, after all; but he was getting an accusing look through all the blushing.

For a moment, despite his best efforts, Crowley just desperately wanted his hands running through them again. Even asides from it not being to his benefit to let himself want things, Crowley was not an 'ask for things' kind of person, he was more a 'do things people requested in some way or indicated were wanted of him' or 'accept things that were freely offered' kind of person, regardless of role or relationship, but especially in this, and especially with him; whatever this was. Any kind of affection he could ask for was either something that would involve being touched -which only brought to mind the sensation of his hands on his skin, and was too much, to experience and to ask- or that he did not really have a particular desire for. Everything that crossed his mind, he could think of every excuse to shoot down. Even if he did not let the reasons form in concrete terms, he knew he had them. Asking this of him was a lot to ask and he should know that.

“Why don't you come up with suggestions, then?” Crowley asked, defensive, liking it better when Aziraphale was the one flustered.

“Because I- well, I don't- How am I supposed to... You don't...” he stopped himself, looking unimpressed with both of them.

Again he was running into the issue of not being sure enough exactly what Crowley wanted of him personally enough to be sure what nature of things he might like or be comfortable with. He could ask if something was wanted, that was fair enough, but there were so many things you just did not ask someone if they wanted when you did not know what they wanted out of the relationship in general.

Aziraphale pouted at him as if done playing this game.

The look on Crowley's face told him he considered his momentary silence to be a victory.

“Dear boy, don't you dare think this settles the issue.”

Aziraphale raised one eyebrow, in a way that may have -unintentionally or not- suggested that he would think of things he wanted and would ask for them, and would enjoy them, and that all of that was as inevitable as the tide.

“Oh, but maybe this is all already a lot, all at once?” he said in response to the look he got, “But please, do think about it, won't you, dear?” he pleaded, all warmth and softness again.

It had been an emotionally taxing couple of days, and all he wanted to do was fold back into him and sleep. He nodded on his way to laying back down, pushing him subtly to the mattress as if to say the conversation was over and it was time to sleep.

“Oh.” Aziraphale accepted.

~*~

It had worked for about a week. Distracting Aziraphale by way of bringing him to see things, and to new restaurants, to his favourite ones -or modern ones that carried something of their atmosphere and culinary quality- was generally effective. He could drag up old but pleasant memories and they could reminisce. It took the focus back off of himself and had the comfort of old habits. He could come up with endlessly inspired ideas for dates; not that these were dates -or not dates- exactly. He was no trying to woo him into anything they did not already have, and what they had never required a label before. They were dates in the technical sense at the very least. Aziraphale would be delighted with them every time, enthusiastic and cheery. It was working, right up until it was very clear that it was not.

“This has all been absolutely lovely my dear, but I hope you aren't trying to make me forget...”

“Forget what?” he asked from behind his hand.

It had -in fact- been a whole three days this time since he had stopped himself from trying to kiss him again. He thought he had been doing pretty well, actually. Of course Aziraphale was just letting himself be distracted for Crowley's comfort.

Aziraphale looked around and, finding they were in the middle of a restaurant, let it slide for the moment. Being in public was the one context where he had gone back to comfortable just telling him to shut up when he brought up anything to do with feelings or intimacies. It was not embarrassment with anyone seeing them, as he was happy to hold hands and generally be interpreted as a couple as much as ever, but more that being in the relative stimulation level and lack of comfort and general lack of privacy afforded by a public space was not his choice for opening up, and probably never would be. He thought this was exactly why he kept choosing public venues to spend time together. He could hardly blame him for needing a bit of breathing space.

~*~

After that, he found Crowley to have made himself scarce for nearly another week, until finally mentioning he would be out of town for a couple of days again. While this worried him, it did give him time to think, even if most of it was anxious spirals and questions he could not answer by himself.

He thought, maybe, overall and all things considered, the issue might lay somewhere in Crowley not being sure of what was welcome, else in some trauma he was not yet comfortable enough to discuss, or both. Either way, the logic seemed to be to make him feel as welcomed and as comfortable as possible. He thought maybe returning gestures of affection was a safe bet, but on the off chance it was general discomfort with him, he thought it best to really stick to reciprocating, not coming up with new ideas as was suggested.

He cursed that the distraction of the spell-work was now gone and had only been added to all of it. If he could not get anything else out of him, maybe now he would at least open up about what spells would likely work for them and what they would require, since he was certain his reluctance to discuss it before had everything to do with not wanting to give away that he was the expert on the matter. Though, all that really stood in the way now was the question of how inherently incompatible they each were with being able to take energy into themselves that was so oppositely sourced, and he suspected Crowley did not have the answers any more than he did, and that was why he had seen fit to drop it.

He turned the key over in his hand, studying the little metal book on the key-chain. He was sure his own reluctance to step out of his own space and his own habits could come off as disinterest even when he did not intend it to. He was sure the older key that had been on here, equally obviously intended for him, had been to his old flat, and acquired a very long time ago. Crowley had never quite given it to him, and he was gaining certainty that it was because he did not think it would have been welcome. Examining it gently, he discovered the book opened, if you really looked for it. It had room for something small inside, under glass, a note or a small photo, just on one side, but it had been left empty. It was his choice of what to fill it with and Crowley probably never intended to know. It was so tragically non-presumptive of him.

He knew grand gestures should not be the bulk of how he expressed his feelings, as they hardly made up for anything, and he did not want there to be anything to make up for, but Crowley being away for a few days really was the perfect opportunity for it.

He was running out of ways he could enrich their experience of the shop any, but Crowley's flat -and its predecessor- had always bent cold and sleek, somewhat impersonal and hardly home-like at all. He would assume this was how Crowley preferred it, except that was clearly not the case, not underneath some desire for a certain appearance. He had commented many times by now how lovely the shop was, in his own way, and treated it more like home than he ever had his own residence, now that he was allowed to. Until they did settle in together comfortably enough to move away somewhere, he thought it might be nice if the space that Crowley still clearly needed was a bit more welcoming, a bit more of a comfort to him.

He did go over with that thought in mind, some image of what his flat had always seemed to be and some anxiety about how much he would welcome changes, but when he got there he was greeted with the realization that this had already been slowly changing. True more throws and cushions had begun to accumulate where they sat, even if the couch was a little stiff, and a substantial and lovely wine rack had made its way into his kitchen, though the decor was still clearly on the minimal side, other than plants, but he had assumed it looking more lived-in was strictly because they were actually living in it sometimes.

Now it seemed at least somewhat intentional, if not wholly conscious. Even while he had been away for the past week there were already more changes, softer and more luxurious cushions obviously made for relaxing more than just looking nice, throws that were meant for warmth more than achieving some particular aesthetic. There was an oddly warm homey smell in the air, even despite the downright conspicuous lack of candles, that reminded him of baked goods. Still, he thought there was some room for improvement, and it was not like Crowley never took the liberty of introducing things to his shop; or occasionally moving things around. If anything he would rather encourage that at this point anyway, though he would like to know where all his own candles had gotten to. Finally, he settled on what he thought might be appreciated the most.

~*~  
  
And thus it was that Crowley came home from his trip to find a very notable addition to his living room and a very flustered angel, folding small blankets and arranging cushions, who did not seem to have quite expected him back yet.

The chair was impressive, to say the least. It was nearly black and stylishly marbled in colour, a softened leather. It was big enough to be a love seat, really, but was obviously a very large and very plush armchair. The only thing that looked out of place about it was its lack of harsh lines, the way the cushioning of the arms sloped up and back down as if perfect to sleep cradled in. He would have assumed it commissioned for someone much larger than both of them, all but for the fact that it was sitting in his living room. After the past number of days -which he had just spiralled his way through anxiously- he wanted nothing more than to collapse into it, it looked so inviting; not least of all because it looked like there was room for both of them.

Aziraphale watched him stare at the chair, looking like he wanted to tip right off his feet, looking exhausted.

“It's too much, isn't it? Too um...” he waved his hands around looking for some way to describe the ways in which it was too much for the space or for him, or to be handed without warning, or something.

Crowley proceeded, in every appearance of calmness, to take off his sunglasses and set them on the table before swooping over to him and squeezing him to his chest. The kisses pressed to the side of his face were heart-wrenching in how shy and reserved they were, despite how often he kissed him this way. First it was one, a pause, then another, and then a few more. Aziraphale could feel himself blushing, not used to this kind of attention being on him, but he did feel far more assured that the chair was welcome, as a gesture if not as an addition.

If Crowley was concerned about Aziraphale intending this kind of affection to always be one-sided, this helped. He looked quite pleased with himself all of a sudden; tickled, in a word. He did not even need to change his vision to see that he was blushing, though he did, to see the full effect of it and take stock of the room.

“You like it then?” he asked, sounding far too uncertain.

Crowley wondered if he was this bad. He wanted to kiss him, absolutely, without caveat, except that if he kissed him he knew he would want more, or his body would, and he did not know if that would be welcome either. So he kissed his cheek again, which had proven to make him smile. He had spent the last number of millennia coming to identify more and more with his body, more than he was ever supposed to, but this was still something he could not quite accept. He knew he could experience love without lust, and it would be far simpler to get back to that as quickly as possible. This was a momentary slip and he would outlast it.

“'Course I do. You're so thoughtful, angel... Thank you.”

Aziraphale held his gaze steadily as he looked like he was considering doing more than just kissing his cheek again, but Crowley pulled himself away. He did tug on his hand gently though. He sat down, looking altogether relieved to get off of his feet, and tugged him along after. Calling him thoughtful stung a little bit, and he was slowly coming to terms with the fact that he did not feel like he had been nearly thoughtful enough, and felt like he was getting too much credit already. He tucked himself politely into the back corner on one side so Crowley could make himself comfortable laying across him and the chair, however he wanted to. The expressive hum of contentment he got when he finally settled down told him he had chosen right.

“It's not much, but, I thought it might be more comfortable to watch movies... And I thought that, it would be, well, more comfortable than the couch, when I'm not here... A nice place to curl up.” he offered him a small smile.

He did not want to insult his couch at all, it just seemed to prioritise looking nice over being sat on. He also had not expected to be dragged into the chair the moment Crowley saw it.

“Don't be modest, angel, this is...” he noticed a handle on the side of the chair currently above his head and pulled it, toppling them both back further into the chair as it unfolded, “Downright luxuriant.” he said, pleased, once he recovered from the surprise.

The chair had rolled him off of his lap and face-first onto his chest, where he stayed. It must have been some kind of memory foam under the leather because his limbs felt so well supported it ached pleasantly and made him forget they existed anywhere in particular in relation to the rest of him.

“Thank you, angel, it's very...”

“Oh not at all... Really, it's the -least- I could do...”

“For what?” Crowley interrupted him right back

“For, well...” he gestured, vaguely and as much as he could with the way he was pinned, around and at Crowley in his lap.

“Angel.” he said sternly, “You know you don't owe me anything, right?”

“I suppose you're right but... Well, with the- all the work you did keeping me from having to...”

“No buts angel... You never asked for any of that. You barely even accepted what I did offer you.”

He only looked pained.

“Oh, and I'm really quite sorry about all of that too, dear, I-”

“Enough.” Crowley put his verbal foot down, “I don't want to hear it, You don't owe me anything, not for what I've done, not because of anything I've asked for, or you've asked for, or how I feel.” he said, his voice faltering on the last word, “I don't want any of that.” he mumbled into his chest.

“What -do- you want, darling?” he tried again.

“Whatever you want to give...” he trailed off catching his own phrasing, turning red.

“Anything.” Aziraphale mouthed to himself, not quite having the nerve to put a voice to it.

If Crowley heard him, he made a good show of not reacting much, and arbitrary seeming swells of affection were the norm for him. He did take one of his arms from under his side and put it on top of him, seemingly as much to be held as to not be laying on it, and he moved into his other hand when he sank it into his hair.

~*~

Crowley did find a reason, after all, to pull out some of his more creative date ideas, wondering how he would outdo himself if they were ever actually -undeniably- dates, in the most courting-like sense they had ever admitted to. Aziraphale seemed intent on making it hard not to, even just in some very natural drive to reciprocate all his attention. There was only so much in the way of comfortable bedding and good food he could reasonably fold into all the cold minimalism of his flat, only so much he could find interesting books he might like, only so much he could leave out books of his own to read that might suit his taste, and -apparently- no book could now quite compare to ones he already had anyway.

The problem, if he could call it that, was that Aziraphale suddenly seemed intent on spoiling him back. They had re-hashed the same argument enough times about nothing being owed, and about him doing it because he enjoyed seeing Crowley enjoy it, which had always been his own excuse, and which was uniquely mollifying to hear. He was not sure how many more phrasings he could stand of him reiterating how much he just wanted to do things to watch him take pleasure in it.

If Aziraphale was concerned on any level that all the desire for cuddling was impersonal or brought on by the cold, it was assuaged time and again by his responses, in him picking him over heated blankets every time, by his growing comfort in asking for it -or hinting very strongly he would prefer it- and in every stubborn moment where he kept insistently curling up to him even once it was warm, and eventually too warm to keep doing so.

Now he kicked the blanket off of his feet completely in frustration and partially rolled over, almost putting his back to his chest.

“When did it get so hot?” he complained.

“Too warm, my dear? I could leave you the...” he stopped because Crowley looked stricken.

“Don't look at me like that.” he said rolling his eyes, “I don't need excuses to hold you, dear, but you have to admit, I am rather warm, and this isn't the most convenient weather for it.” he stopped again because Crowley was glaring at him.

Admittedly the sweat between them was making the cotton of Aziraphale's shirt less opaque than usual wherever he had been pressed against him. He was not going to say out loud that the idea -that summer was not suitable for cuddling- was unacceptable to him, but he blushed as if he had anyway.

“You couldn't have a room that's a little less stuffy? A few more windows? Air flow? It's a miracle you even -have- to use miracles to make this place smell musty. We're surrounded by interior walls and all -you- have in here is a damned fireplace, of all things.”

Admittedly some of those interior walls may have been constructs and illusion built entirely of book cases, and he got the sense they may have shifted around whenever he found it convenient.

“I don't recall you complaining all winter about this.” he raised one eyebrow, “And it just so happens I do.”

“Do what?”

“Have a room, with more windows, more air.”

“I don't mean out there.” he said, indicating the shop through the archway.

“Neither do I.” he sighed and rolled his eyes, “Crowley, back in the day, if someone were to own and run this shop, do you think they'd be expected to live somewhere else entirely? With the cost of a shop in a location like this?”

He shot him an accusing look. Of course he imagined there was some kind of room up there, but he had thought it would be used as storage, if not by design than because that was all Aziraphale would want with it. Now he made it sound more like it was potentially an actual living area, and like Crowley was just failing to consider basic logic. It was not even that which he was most annoyed with.

“Angel, are you about to tell me you've had a whole flat up there this _entire_ time?”

Now Crowley seemed agitated, exasperated, turning back to fix him with a hard look after scrubbing his hand down his face.

“What did you think I had up there?” he asked, the point of one eyebrow suggesting he knew exactly what all the rumours were.

“Books... Boxes of books, mostly.” Crowley implored him.

Aziraphale gave him a soft look, as if his ideas were quaint, if only somewhat accurate.

“Well, it- It's not much, and it's not as though I really -use- it... Not much anyway.” he defended.

Truth be told, until he needed it for something, there were times when he forgot it existed. At least recently he had been making use of it again, other than for storage, and part of his recent tidying spree had included making sure it was presentable, even if he was not satisfied with it yet. He felt like it was only technically a living space, but there was at least some chance it might be cooler, on account of the potential airflow. Crowley had climbed off of him and the couch to stand expectantly at the doorway.

He did not know why it had never registered to him fully that the hall on the way to the roof had other doors along it. He had written them off unconsciously as not leading anywhere of importance. Admittedly, it was not much. The kitchen was usable but small, with a quaint little dining area and big bright windows. There was a bathroom, with a large claw-footed tub. The only other room was the bedroom. Aziraphale stood aside to let him look around.

There was airflow, that much was fair, and it looked like a recent attempt to remove a layer of dust, but it was fairly obvious nothing up here saw a lot of use. There were stacked boxes, some newer, some dustier, possibly containing books. There was a closet that he assumed did have clothes hanging in it, even if they were outdated. There were mismatched bookcases and shelves around, as if put here when they had stopped being useful elsewhere, and looked like they had been shifted recently, leaving subtle shapes where they had been defending the floor from the elements. The only thing that was not dusty was the writing desk at the back window, which clearly saw regular enough use, over time, if the marks and wear under the chair where any indication. There was a tidy vase of dark feathers resting on the top of it now, and one clearly set aside as a quill. He had wondered what he wanted with them.

All in all it looked like someone had been in the process of moving in, but had gotten distracted halfway through; for half a century. There was wallpaper with a stripped pattern, but it was subtle. Everything was light colours with surprisingly understated patterns, contrasted with dark and rich wood. There were creams, and subdued pastels. The lamps and much of the furniture were clearly antiques, bought new and then kept. There was nothing offensive about it, especially once Aziraphale went and opened the large windows and the full length curtains billowed out of the way to announce the breeze that swept through the entire room, making his skin feel chill for the first time in a week. The bedding seemed slightly dusty, but he did not really care. It was too hot to be standing anyway. He sat down on the edge of the bed, and when Aziraphale nodded subtly, he flopped backwards, ignoring the stiff feeling to the bedding and letting the breeze wash over him.

“Figures.”

“What's that dear?”

“All the beige and blue.” he waved his hand around.

Of course, to Crowley it looked indistinguishable from a sea of light pinks, warm toned and not approaching magenta, though he would hesitate to actually label it coral, dusty rose, which probably looked less muted to him than it was intended to, and light green-teals that reminded him of fancy glassware and fancier deserts, but Aziraphale did not need to know that. He was raising one eyebrow in a way that was quite worrisome though.

“Is that what these colours look like to you, then?” he tested.

“Well no, they -look- but I'm sure If I were to-” he adjusted his vision, and the colours did not shift far, “Oh.” Crowley said, as Aziraphale looked progressively more amused.

“Is this, what beige looks like to you dear?” he asked, running a hand over rose bedding.

Crowley made some vague sounds that resembled speech.

“Only some of them, sometimes.” he admitted, knowing full well what colour his suits tended to be.

“And you can't see the difference between blue and this sort of mint colour?” he asked, indicating bold stripes on the walls.

“Not all the time.”

The implication here that the bedding did not look beige to him was that all beige clearly enough looked pink. He looked at himself and into space, through his closet door at what he knew lay beyond it.

He resisted his every impulse to start assuring him of how nice his suits looked on him, either way, mostly because then he would have to admit to finding his clothing very charming; on him. At least he looked far from offended. In fact he seemed to be taking amused note of it. He smiled at him gently and pat his knee before getting up.

“Let's get you cooled down then...” he looked around, “I know I left it here somewhere...” he said to himself.

Just like that Aziraphale was looking through the boxes, for one in particular. If Crowley had ever imagined being in his bed -which he had not- for the first time or any other -which had certainly never crossed his mind- this certainly was not what he would have imagined, not that he would have imagined anything. He did imagine he would join him eventually.

Aziraphale had bought a fan at some point when the weather starting changing and he saw one in a shop window. He thought it might be useful to better control the temperature in his shop. He heard Crowley roll over on the bed. For a moment his energy had been straying toward him as he wandered around the room, as if trying to coil him to the bed, but now his focus seemed to have settled elsewhere. Finally, he found the box. He did not see why a simple electric fan would come out of the box requiring any assembly, so of course it was ready to plug in when he pulled it out. He set it up between the bed and the window, adjusting it to a decent height.

“What's this?” Crowley asked, peeking into the shelf in the bottom of the night stand.

It was hard not to notice the only things in the room that looked like they had been bought more recently than the fifties. Books, of course they were books, but they also looked surprisingly modern.

“Oh dear.” Aziraphale said out loud before he could stop himself.

It had slipped his mind that he had left those here, explicitly where Crowley was not likely to see them. There was no helping it now though. Crowley was already leafing past each one, expression escalating at each of the titles.

Crowley would have expected cheesy romance novellas before expecting anything like this. Five books on communication in different types of relationships, and just as many, some of them papers, about snakes, three of which were explicitly about caring for them as pets.

“The five love languages... And,” he made a face, “Reptilian ethology in captivity?” he asked, eyebrows raised in an incredulous expression.

“Well, I- I'm sorry dear, I-” he sighed, resigned, coming to sit next to him, “You don't seem to want to talk about these things, and you hardly seem willing to tell me when something's wrong, or what you would like... I didn't want to make you talk about anything you weren't comfortable with, and you know I'm not very good at these things...”

“Angel.” he tried to interrupt him, at least sounding a little amused, for the curl that had twitched into place at the side of his lip, sitting up.

“I thought, maybe I just wasn't reading things right... And you said that when you were a snake, it was actually like being one, and I thought maybe they would help me understand what you needed, or wanted, or what I could do to take care of you...”

“Angel...” he whined, sounding pained, devolving into a low hissing sound.

“And well, I'm not sure they were much help anyway.” he stopped babbling, giving the books a cold look, as if they had personally betrayed him by not serving their purpose.

Aziraphale, attention turned inward, was blushing and flustered, for once, but when he dug his fingers into the front of his shirt and straddled his lap, drawing his full attention back outwards -after a moment of surprise- he switched seamlessly to every appearance of calm observation; waiting. If he was blushing now it was indistinguishable from the moment previous.

The thought that he had been spending all this time doing everything he could to try to understand him, provide for him, even when Crowley had been the one compulsively maintaining barriers for once, it had gotten into his skin, filling him with warmth, a heat he had not been prepared for. Aziraphale was not that attentive towards anyone, he did not think he even had it in him, and everything he had been putting his energy towards, now that he was free to, had to do with inviting Crowley into his space and trying to keep him safe and comfortable. It was like he was trying to repay every act of service all at once, as if he had wanted to all along. It felt like being gently courted without any expectation of a return, and it was maddening.

He could feel Crowley's breath on his lips. His own hand hesitated, an inch from pressing his thumb to his chin, wondering if he should stop him, or if this was communication enough that it really was what he wanted.

“Hhhhhh-Heaven.” Crowley's voice slipped from hissing to a desperate whisper, at himself, a moment before he stopped, rolling off of his lap onto the bed next to him.

Aziraphale watched him with concern as he hissed at the pillows for being dusty, miracled them proper, and then buried his face in them, scarlet.

“Crowley, dear?” he asked, hand still paused in the air, “Did you just use..?” he asked, fighting with himself not to be amused by this.

He could not really blame himself for overwhelming him, he had not really done anything. At least he knew we could use the safe-word. He had not wanted to push any boundaries enough to test him on it. The point was not really to make him have to use it. Crowley was clearly struggling internally. He made a pained, sobbing sound into the pillow. He felt awful for him, really, but it was also positively adorable.

“You -know- that's not how it works, don't you, darling boy?” he asked him, too sweetly, too close to amused.

“We do need to talk about this though.” he said softly, after a long minute, “When you're ready.” he amended, referring to when he had collected himself, not to putting it off indefinitely again.

He wanted to comfort him, but he was not sure about how to approach him, or if he should.

Given that he had just used his safe-word on himself, Crowley could no longer deny that they needed to discuss this, it was getting absurd. He could feel Aziraphale's uncertainty in the way he shifted, the way his warmth got closer and hesitated. He took the pillow next to him and shoved it at him subtly.

It had been a good long time since he had laid on his bed, but he settled down next to him very politely now. Eventually, amidst a sea of blushing and freckles, two golden eyes did reappear over the pillow at him. He offered his hand to his tousled hair and Crowley nodded subtly.

“I'm sorry.” he mumbled into the pillow, eventually.

“My dear, sweet Crowley, please, don't ever be sorry.” he said, stroking his hair and adjusting around the pillow to mimic him, “I just wish you would tell me what you want, darling.”

At the moment that was to pin him to the bed out of frustration above all else. He sighed deeply.

“Angel I-” he bit his lip to steady it, breathing, “There's some things I'm not in the habit of letting myself want.” he admitted, starting to frustrate himself with his own vagueness.

“You know it's alright, don't you? To want things, that there's nothing wrong with...”

“Angel.” he interrupted him, “This isn't...” he -wanted- to say it was not some shame complex, or anything of the like, but he was not sure that was not tied up in this, “It's more complicated than that... Wanting some things just, hasn't gone well for me.” he said, still absurdly vague.

It was the last thing he could explain right now though, all the particular instances where he had let himself want something out of his reach and how it had really affected him. He was not sure he would ever have the footing he needed to explain the particulars of it. He could list them off in his head, detail the ways in which it had broken his heart, but he did not think that would ever be helpful. It was complicated beyond all of that, even. There were layers of nuance and subtlety, and he was not sure Aziraphale was aware of just how bad he was with subtlety. He still seemed to think that whatever flirtatiously affectionate dialogue he was having -with his houseplants as conduits- was subtle.

“Why don't you tell me what -you- want, then, angel?” he said, not insincerely, but certainly in some measure of defensiveness.

“What I-?”

Aziraphale was clearly taken aback, somehow seemingly having never expected to become the focus of this. Crowley knew Aziraphale was in the habit of being in outright denial about wanting anything he did not see as perfectly safe and inconsequential, and it was a hypocritical bit of mental gymnastics to accuse him of the same, as if it was some terrible mark of his mental health or sense of self-worth.

“Well, I want you -us both- to be happy.” he finally reasoned, “Together, preferably, however it suits us...” he concluded.

At least now he seemed newly reassured that their desire for each others companionship was wholly mutually reciprocated.

“And does that include anything in particular?” Crowley asked him, cattily.

“Crowley.” he sighed in affectionate exasperation, “That's hardly a fair comparison. Of course the details, particulars of, well, kinds or acts don't matter to me, not in and of themselves, so long as it's love...” he confessed, “But you're clearly conflicted over something, and it's very obviously causing you distress.” he refuted.

He just wanted to know what he would prefer of him.

“Would you tell me, dearest, what I am, to you?”

“You're my best friend.” he said very quickly, “And I-” he seemed to lose himself for a moment, disappearing into the past, staring into it for a length of time he was unsure of, “I- er... Oh I don't know, what am I to you then?” he switched from earnest, vulnerable, back to irritable and still vulnerable.

“Oh Crowley, love, you're _the world_ to me, nothing less.” he said, so easily it made Crowley's eyes and nose burn.

“... But, I suppose, maybe it's like with gender... The definitions, performing certain things, they don't really matter to me, but they clearly matter to you, so I just want to know what suits you.”

He would ask him, again, if he wanted to be kissed, now that some of the ambiguity of the tone of it had been lost, but he did not like this current pattern of turning his questions around on him.

“You do, angel.” he said to him, again, very sweet, and perfectly sincere, but beside the point.

He rolled his eyes, but Crowley could not even describe in how many ways he sincerely meant it. Above all else, he was so perfectly suited, not just to Crowley, but to fit like a caress around all his broken edges in a way that made him feel whole again.

“Yes, but how -exactly- you feel...”

“I thought you said you could sense what I felt.” Crowley mused pointedly, doing that thing where he tilted his head in open curiosity, usually accompanied by circling him subtly.

After all this time, and shifted subtly in context as it was, it made him feel a little soft. He had already been told this did not work like that. He was playing at something for some reason. He did not like that he had taken up a habit of rehashing the same arguments. There was something he could not bring himself to say. Maybe he was fishing for a less politely vague question, or something more direct.

“I can feel what's in your heart, Crowley, in broad strokes, but I can't see what's in your head.” he explained, “Oh, it must be lovely tough.” he said admiringly, momentarily taken with the thought of his thoughts, “It just doesn't leave me with much context, I'm afraid...” he trailed off, thinking.

Maybe it was that Crowley's own sense of things, while not including love, was more complex than his own and he was looking for reassurance of something, or did not quite trust he was being entirely forward about what he could feel.

“I sense love, but it's not distinguished by _kind_ , and I can't generally sense everything else that goes along with it. I'm not psychic, and not much of an empath, I'm afraid.” he tried to reframe it.

“So, you -really- can't tell...”

“I can't. There's important distinctions... Love can be friendly, it can be familial, romantic, devotion... It can be the love one has for their work, for nature, for memories, God. It can be attachment, it can be passionate... But those are all details... Important ones, especially to some, in some contexts, but I can't tell one from another, not just like that.”

Crowley seemed almost relieved, but Aziraphale did think it would save them a lot of trouble if he could tell these things so easily without being told.

“These are things I have to get a sense of the way everyone else does... And I'm not very good at it... and, well, not to be... Well, dear boy, your behaviour hasn't exactly been a straightforward communication of much except... Except that there's _something_ , and that it's- well, all tied up, or something- complicated, as you said.”

Not that climbing on top of him exactly left much room for interpretation, but it hardly told him what he actually wanted, or how he felt about it.

“And I- Crowley, I can't just make guesswork of it. If I got something like -that- _wrong_...”

“Oh, angel... I'm not sure if you could.” he sighed, not amused exactly, but remembering a time he had said something similar with less sincerity.

He wanted to explain, especially now that he saw how much Aziraphale could tell he was struggling and how out of his way he was going to try to help, even in the vacuum of helpful direction. Part of the problem was that he did not even know where to start explaining, not just because it was painful and awkward for him, but because of how he knew it would hurt to hear it all. He would have to explain somehow, it would not do to keep letting these things get in their way.

“Angel, it's... Complicated...” he ended up reiterating, not meaning to, but not being able to find anything more concise.

Most of all he would have to start correcting a lot of residual notions and delusions he had previously afforded Aziraphale about what it meant to be a demon, not just fallen, but the entire culture and construct of being forcibly aligned to hell. He had been avoiding this for a very long time. Even if some of his lack of understanding caused him to be insensitive at times, and even though he himself made a strong pretence, in front of God and everyone of trying to get Aziraphale to understand heaven's propaganda for what it was, there had always been some delusions he had wanted to let him keep, on some level. Maybe it was time to let go of that.

It had seemed needlessly cruel to explain the gritty details of some things, and he had never been sure where that threshold was, between disillusioning him enough to set him straight, versus enough that his empathy would erase the distinction between understanding what it was to fall in the objective sense, and -in how it would come to shape him- being very much like having fallen himself. He had never been sure where the line might be, where Aziraphale might gain enough understanding of his experience that he would not be able to look at heaven, hell or God the same way again, and he felt there was a difference between encouraging him to seek that understanding for himself, and forcing it on him.

Now Aziraphale had come to leap out of heaven to be by his side, on his own terms, but that still left the fact that explaining these things meant explaining his own personal trauma, his own involvement in it, and making himself emotionally vulnerable in a way that -while necessary, for the understanding he wanted, for healing and any kind of catharsis- he was not exactly comfortable with, and not at all practised at. He did not have anyone else who could do him the kindness of explaining these things for him, even if he wanted that.

“Angel, you used to remind me -us- all the time, that I'm a demon, but I'm not sure you ever quite understood what that really meant.” he said, in a tone much like you would use on someone's next of kin.

“The whole question of love, intimacy, it's all, well it's supposed to be out of the question, isn't it? Indulgences, sure, hedonism, great... But emotions? Relationships? Love of any kind? We're not supposed to... Not even supposed to be thought of as capable...”

“I suppose it does stand to reason.” he sighed, when Crowley did not seem to be elaborating further, “That intimacy might be complicated, for -well- for you... And for a demon... I can't imagine.”

That was not untrue, but he was not sure he had ever been comfortable with the connotations Aziraphale seemed to assign to that. For the most part because they were in line with the assumptions everyone made, but -even at its most accurate- lacked all sense of context or nuance.

“Oh I -know- what you think demons _like me_ get up to...” he quipped, less gently than he had intended.

“Pardon?”

There was something in that tone he did not like. He suddenly seemed almost testy. It was pain, he did not like seeing him in pain. He did not like causing it or dragging it up. Also a kind of bitterness clashing with something akin to amusement that made him wary. It gave the impression Crowley thought his ideas about things were insultingly quaint.

Crowley sighed. They never really had unpackaged this.

“When I first told you I changed my name... One of -your- first guesses was “Asmodeus” he said, drawling the name especially like it was tiresome.

Asmodeus was a demon known, pretty much from the start, for temptations to do with lust, probably the closest thing to an incubus you could conceive of at the time.

“Well, it's not like these were things that I didn't think you were -capable- of, you -were- known for temptations back then, in a broader sense at least, and I wasn't going to assume, but it's not like I could have just outright asked.”

At least Crowley's ability to communicate seemed to be steadily increasing.

“You could have.”

Sure they had not been close yet at the time, but Crowley had never rejected any attempt to converse with him.

“Oh yes, and how would that have gone...” he said almost apologetically, “Oh hello Crawley dear, is it by any chance -you- who's been going around seducing half of humanity to sins of the flesh?” he went on to mock his hypothetical past-self in overly simple and sweet tones, “That would have gone over quite well...”

One of Crowley's own expression of choice was on the tip of his tongue. He had always been one to come up with colourful metaphors. These days it always came off like he was trying to remember something the humans had come up with, but the truth was he had probably thought of it first.

“Have some questions for that guy did you?” he asked, suddenly with the air of circling him slowly again, despite being quite still, all too interested in his answer.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes.

“I just wanted to know what -you- had been up to.”

Crowley looked too amused, despite the context, though the bitter and defensive overtones were still distressing.

“And well, maybe how it sat with you. If you were...”

“ _What_ I had been up to?”

He tried to keep the bitterness out of his tone. He wished so badly they could exist in a world where the angel's impression of things was accurate enough, but if Aziraphale had bothered examining it at all, he would already realize how much more complicated it had to be; how much more terrible.

Still, making Aziraphale uncomfortable in return always seemed to help when he was feeling nervous or overwhelmed. Seeing that he could blush and get flustered too helped him feel less vulnerable. He wiggled one leg idly.

“T's basically what it amounted to anyway, isn't it?” he raised an eyebrow, “May as well have just asked.” he said, tilting his head in the other direction.

“Yes, well I got my answer didn't I?”

He felt defensive, of his intent, though he did not want to even try to excuse some of the things he had said, early on, and he was not sure if Crowley's reluctant amusement was helping that or making it worse. He felt like he was being teased. At least teasing him seemed to put him at ease on some level.

“It was probably insensitive... Ignorant, even... I'm sorry dear.” he sighed, very sincerely.

Crowley shook his head, brushing it off. That was about six thousand years ago. Angels in general had a habit of sexualizing demons, it was all wrapped up in every bit of propaganda ever fed to him, to either of them; demons were supposed to tempt, after all. Yet the moment he corrected him on it, it was accepted. Aziraphale had always taken his word on things, let him define himself to him as he wanted to.

It was only the notions about demons that Crowley -did not- bother correcting, and had not -in millennia- demonstrated to the contrary that seemed to stay stuck. At this point that was mostly physical limitations he had, or some details of what was expected of him because of being a demon; and this question of intimacy. Other than that it had all fallen away. Aziraphale had always been more interested in getting to know him than he was attached to any preconceived notions.

His early, easy acceptance that he potentially both could and would seduce half of mankind was something he was not going to unpack at any point, though it was not -wholly- unfounded per se, and he did think it might serve them better if he had a more nuanced understanding of these things. He just did not want to watch him be so heartbroken. It seemed inevitable now. It would have been better if he could have just controlled himself a bit better.

“Aziraphale...” he started in a subdued tone, “You remember what the seven deadly sins are, don't you?”

“Of course, well, as the humans put them, Avarice, Envy, Gluttony, Pride, Sloth, Lust and Wrath.” he said, not sure how to contextualize that enough to comment on yet.

“And take wrath... It's not just anger is it? There are -so many- reasons a person is perfectly justified to be angry, angel, aren't there? Injustice, abuse, oppression... It would be victim blaming wouldn't it? Even for your lot, to make humans the way they are, all full of involuntary emotions, and then blame them when they get angry, angry when they're hurting and dying, being violated, angry on someone's behalf... Even the humans, if you ask the right ones, have figured that out by now... That's there's justified wrath, that isn't a sin, that isn't enough to damn your soul.”

“And there's a line isn't there? Between harmful pride and... and the whole... a gradient really, between that and just feeling good about yourself because you did a good job? That rush your brain -makes- when you get something right... That people are allowed to feel good about themselves, accomplished... And enjoying consuming, and having things isn't all bad is it, angel? Not until it takes from someone else? And wanting things for yourself, it's not a sin until you're holding it against someone, trying to take it from them... Wants and needs aren't sin until it's being taken, unless it's coming at a cost to someone else...”

He watched his lip relax subtly, confusion, hurt, the barest hint of a pout, forgetting expression in favour of listening, of trying to understand. Not ready to comment on this, maybe not really wanting to know where he was going with this any sooner than he had to.

“And just to think it, want... It's not enough on it's own either. People have thoughts, so many thoughts, angel, often not even voluntarily... Even God doesn't punish people for having thoughts. It takes action, or neglect, it takes -choices- angel... God is forgiving after all...” he huffed bitterly, “More than God was with us...”

Crowley was becoming further drawn into his own head, and the past, and his voice was getting distant.

“And lust, it's not enough to desire, not enough to lay with anyone properly consenting, not a man, not even a demon, not the way men have claimed, not enough to just -think- to take it at someone's expense. To truly _damn a soul,_ they have to -take- it. They have to take it knowing -or thinking- it might be -or is- coming at someone else's expense... That it's being taken from them.”

There it was, his heart breaking. Crowley could not look at him and still be able to speak.

“And I couldn't do it, angel, I couldn't set them on each other that way... I couldn't whisper in their ears that they should do that to someone... I couldn't even begin to rationalize it.”

It certainly was not the most damning confession, but it was revealing, and his voice was unsteady now.

“But the world, back then, it wasn't all full with clever little human things to play off of, not the way it is now... It was all so much more bare -naked- in a lot of ways, direct, just people needing and struggling and wanting things... And it was my job to tempt them to take what they didn't need, to take it at someone's expense, but everyone needed everything and almost no one ever had enough and I couldn't bring myself to set and pit them against each other like that, to make them suffer at each other's hands...” his voice broke and pleaded as if he was asking, now, why this was being demanded of him.

Aziraphale had made his way to bury his face in his hair as he spoke, hands shaking as he stroked his hair soothingly. He could hear the quiet sniffling breaths in response to what he was saying. He could feel him folding gently around him.

“And the punishment... for not doing your job, for not ensnaring enough souls... The torture, if you fail, if you won't perform. They don't care how... how you do it, how you use yourself, your words, mind, your body to accomplish it, they just care that it gets done.”

He was crying, he knew that, but it was not even for himself. He had settled with these things, as much as he could, a very long time ago. Even now, he knew that the shame he felt shaking in his chest was not fair, was not deserved. It was Aziraphale having to know all of this now that hurt him so badly, mostly because Aziraphale suffered when he suffered.

What Aziraphale was being told was that under threat of unimaginable torture, and because he could not bring himself to bring harm on someone innocent, he had been forced to use himself to act in the role of the victim. Not only having that forced on him, but being made to have just enough agency in it to feel culpable, and then congratulated for it as if it was his own doing, but also told -until he believed it- that he was bad at this too, still not doing enough, and that he was unforgivably evil and did not deserve any better than this. Aziraphale was seeing red.

If vanishing now to drive a sword into select individuals would not be leaving Crowley's side in this critical moment of vulnerability, he was not sure anything could stop him. He had never wanted to be terrifying before, but there were some people he wanted to be very afraid of him now.

“It's surprisingly easy, really, doesn't even really take -tempting- to find people who would do that to someone. All you really have to do is put yourself in front of them... and let them think you don't have the power to do anything about it. Better me than someone else...”

So, yes, he had been known for temptations, and they were of the kind that had been suggested, but it was not what anyone seemed to think. Some demons did this, even the way he had if they had to, and derived enough satisfaction from the work to be considered very good at it. He had never been able to live up to that standard, though he had never struggled to act the part convincingly. Part of why he had been so successful in early larger endeavours was his absolute desperation to do anything else, anything that looked like he was doing his job earnestly, regardless of whether he succeeded. As time went on and the world got blessedly more complex, he had been able to find other ways.

Mind in the past as it was, it took him a good while to notice just how hot it was getting in the room. At first he had brushed it off as the steady progression towards the heat of summer, but then it become too much to seem natural at all in any season.

“You should have told me.” Aziraphale said in a voice he hardly recognized.

Not that he could fully trust his ears just then anyway. They were ringing from the heat.

“If you had told me what they were...”

Aziraphale felt himself shaking.

“If I had come to you, you would have...”

“I'd have destroyed them.” Aziraphale intended in a tone that spoke of cold-blooded murder, though his blood seemed anything but cold.

At least, that was what he meant to say -as much as he could mean to say any such thing- but if it had come out in a more ambiguous phrasing than -past- tense, that was not something either of them were going to acknowledge at the moment.

Chills clawed their way down Crowley's spine. That was exactly why he had not told him. Even early on, he had the suspicion that he would care and would do something about it -on principal, even if it was not personal- something stupid that would get him in a lot of trouble and get his hands bloody in a way he would never be comfortable with. Crowley had never wanted to do that to him. It also was not his intent to have started another war.

He had put a good bit of effort over the years, explicitly into ensuring Aziraphale would not ever have to get blood on his hands, and that if he did, he would be able to forgive himself for it. Aziraphale, had, after all, been issued the flaming sword that was fit to be wielded by war. Folded politely under a kind surface was all the holy wrath angels could be known for. It felt like all the fire the sword ever contained came from within him and that was pouring out of him now, suffocating and intoxicating; limitless and relentless.

Crowley, despite however he tried to shy away from the sensation, was drawn fully back to the present, gasping for breath, incredulous. As clearly and readily as he imagined Aziraphale could sense love, he felt flames, curling around him protectively, a white hot rage on his behalf, all in service to him, wrapping around him like a blanket; like a shield. It felt like finally drawing breath, like everything was warmth again, it felt as akin to him as hellfire, and -if he was aware enough to think it- he would argue it was not that far off, the fire of angelic wrath. It flooded like sweet air all over him and he felt so oxygen starved. Breathing it into himself felt so natural he did not even question it, and it poured through him like spiced honey.

“Crowley!” he gasped, “You can't...” his protest was weak and died before it even really left.

It was far too late to stop him -oh- but the sound he made was definitely not distressed. He had rushed to hold him, instinctively, trying to check him over, assess and stop -heal- any damage as it was happening if he could, but it seemed unnecessary. If the pleasured moan escaping him was any indication, it was safe enough after all.

“Oh.” he breathed in softening surprise.

Along with everything else he was clearly experiencing, skin red from head to toe, love and affection poured out with it, as strong as ever. Relief washed over him and finished taking away whatever anger fear had left behind, Crowley's pleasure now a cooling kiss where he had been burning. Even if Crowley was not burning away, it was still a little concerning how completely out of himself he seemed. He seemed drugged.

“Aziraphale...” he whispered, as if in a dream, drifting lightly through stars.

Crowley was burning alright, his skin felt like it was on fire at least. He felt so wonderfully heated from the inside in a way he had not imagined he would ever feel again. All the certainty and security -that he expected came with sensing love- was suddenly far less abstract to him. Inside, that rage turned his own anger outward where it belonged, directed at the people who hurt him, no longer festering and twisting in confusion and helplessness into shame and doubt; easier when he was not alone. It felt like the clarity he always knew he should have about it.

He lifted himself by Aziraphale's collar, following that fire until the last of it bled out of him. It was all for him and he wanted it. A warm hand on his cheek and a thumb on his lip gently stopped him before he could press against him trying to suckle the last of it off his lips. That thumb, warm dry flesh on his, sent shivers through him. Then it dusted away, shaking and self-conscious. If anything, Aziraphale held him closer.

“I love you.” Crowley said, the words spilling out before they were even a fully formed thought.

They did not burn, or catch in his throat either. Aziraphale did not need to answer him, he could still taste the evidence of it, indirect or not, like a protective warmth in his skin. All at once everything he had been resisting feeling, wanting, was flooding forward, surging past any sense of shame he could have about it.

He had never seen Crowley give in to something like this. He imagined it was natural enough to respond this way. Bodies were instinctive and eager things, not even all that good at handling the constant presence of human reactions and emotions; even those could break them. For them they were like fragile shells caught in a web of being far greater than they were every meant to contain. He was often amazed Crowley had much self-control at all, let alone the amount he did, knowing how strongly he felt everything and now also knowing how subject he was to the body he inhabited. He could not control how his body reacted but he seemed quite bent on controlling how he behaved bout it. Even now it seemed he was only pressing to be within millimetres of him, insistent and too close for the moment, but still an offer, tugging at him subtly to accept it. He wanted to.

“Crowley...” he whined in a whisper, having to press soft lips under his thumb again, as much to stop himself, “Now is hardly the time... Look at the sate you're in.” he mumbled softly from the other side of his thumb.

He said this, but Crowley did not miss that he licked his lip the way he did when he wanted something. He just was not willing to take even small things if he thought there was a chance of regret, if he thought he might have too much advantage in the situation, if he thought Crowley was not quite in his right mind, or thought it might come at Crowley's expense. That really only stoked the flames and was making it impossible to stay in denial. His body was betraying him, and his throat was the worst offender at the moment. He felt pathetic.

“If... If you still feel the same later... If you really want this, I promise...” he said, kissing his forehead instead, so very tenderly.

Crowley seemed to come back to himself a bit.

“Angel, you...” he breathed deeply, “You -want- to kiss me?” he asked.

“Yes, of course, well, you seem to want...” he said softly, “I can't help but think, the way you'd react...” his voice weakened, “I... I want to feel you...” he trailed off, blushing, the hand on Crowley's cheek shaking gently.

He wanted to feel that reaction. He wanted to feel the love, affection and everything else he could get a sense of -as tied up in all the things he could not sense as they may be- spill out of him. He wanted to feel the blinding, consuming heat, love, white hot, the pleasured scream that would tear out of his soul and shake distant stars. He wanted to hear the sound he would make, or find out whether he would be too breathless. He wanted to feel him melt in his hands, break open to him. He wanted to feel him enjoying it.

Aziraphale was speaking far too close and far too tenderly. The whimper coming from the back of his throat turned into an over-sensitive hiss.

“Careful, angel...” he teased breathlessly, watching him lick his lip again, “That's starting to sound dangerously like...”

Lust. His voice broke before he could say it though, because he was still very close and touching his lips and his eyebrow did that knowing quirk again, and because it was the kind of lust that was in service to love. He recognized the look he was giving him like he felt the thundering demand shaking its way through his own body, though he had never seen it before, not directed at him. It was not hunger for his body or even how it would feel physically, not for his own pleasure, not to take. It was empathetic, it was for how it would make Crowley feel, it was a desire to -give- pleasure. It was lust, but only by some technicality, and for such a small thing, a kiss, even if that small thing was profound to him. If lust was something he could sense at all -if he had not cut that out of himself long ago- he currently could not tell it from the fire burning in himself.

“I'm sorry, dear.” Aziraphale said after a breath, pulling back and trying, visibly, to collect himself.

As clear as it was the state Crowley was in, and as much as he was hardly responding to it the way he could, he could not separate any of this from the context of moments previous. He also did not want his hesitation to come off like rejection, not again, not the first time he was so openly expressing these things. He did not want to make him feel like his reaction had been inappropriate. It was also complicated because Crowley had also gone from talking about sexual trauma to incredibly -obviously- aroused at a speed that could give anyone whiplash, though he understood why. Crowley did not sound at all like he minded, at least.

“And you know, even if you want me to kiss you, it doesn't... It doesn't have to mean anything else, not if you didn't... You know I'd never...It would miss the whole point, if you weren't...” he was cut off by a desperate little pleasured sound.

“I know, angel, I know, I know, that's the whole... That's why...” he said, shaking with the effort of stopping himself from trying to kiss him again.

That was part of why he could not explain himself completely. That was why his skin caught fire every time his mind slipped and he thought about his hands on him; that he was safe, that he would never hurt him, never value anything so meaningless over his well-being. That was a large part of why he could not let himself want things that were not explicitly being offered. He still could not bear to tell him about the particular incident that made him face the wrath of hell rather than continue to traumatize himself. He could not explain everything he was capable of wanting, or why it was still so complicated even beyond what he had explained. Maybe, for now, it would be enough to know that it was complicated.

“I'm the one twisting...” he said and Aziraphale could see shame slowly bleeding into his face.

“Crowley, darling, please.” he begged him, “None of that. I already told you, not to apologize. Not for feeling anything, not for wanting...” he pleaded sternly, still not sure what exactly he did want, not in a practical sense, other than a hundred iterations of insisting he wanted it to be him.

Aziraphale, proprioception intact, could feel when he was giving in to rage. He could feel it as acutely as he could feel himself love. This was the only time he had ever felt consumed by it that did not make him feel monstrous and terrible; the certainty of it was terrifying. Apparently, Crowley could sense it too, and -much to his relief- had taken comfort from it, rather than being afraid or horrified.

“You can feel -that- then, I take it?” he confirmed, a bit embarrassed.

Crowley nodded, covering his own mouth, trying not to moan at the memory of how it felt.

“And it made you feel safe? Loved?” he asked, hopeful, but also driving at a point.

“Yess.” he hissed, nodding again, adorably red, still in his arms.

“Then it's not so unusual, is it? To respond that way.” he cooed softly, still cupping his face gently, thumb stroking his cheek.

Feeling loved and secure was a prerequisite for many people to even be able to experience arousal, and he imagined those things had been in short supply for him.

“You poor thing.” he mumbled holding him close, “I was so worried though...” the pain clear in his voice, “You are alright, aren't you, my dear?” he asked, still holding him tenderly in his hands.

Crowley nodded immediately and enthusiastically.

“I had always assumed...” Aziraphale sighed, almost mournfully.

He had assumed that their natures -in a sense like physicality- were potentially as opposite, at their core, as holy water and hellfire. The threat of the very real chance of hurting each other that way, actually taking energy into each other's ethereal beings -a wholly separate question from displacing each other out of flesh- was exactly the problem he had been agonizing over, very directly, for months now.

“Where do you think hellfire came from, angel?”

The morning star, and all the rest, they were fallen angels after all. He supposed maybe it was like how Crowley's love felt like rain, cooling his skin and reminding him he could put down the sword and be soft and kind.

“I suppose you're probably right...”

Aziraphale took a sobering breath and looked around the room, nothing had caught fire, nothing was out of place.

“Sorry, my dear, I don't think I've helped terribly much with the temperature.” he said though he could feel the fan leaching body heat away through the sweat in the cotton on his back, and everything felt cool in contrast to moments before.

“Mm, different kind of heat, angel.” he hummed absently, already curling up to him as if to go straight to sleep.


	9. Thwarting Wiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Again, this isn't quite what I meant to write for this chapter. This was going to come later. They have some unpacking and decompressing to do, after all. This story is a -little- more light hearted, but you'll have to tell me if I'm overdoing it, torturing Crowley with anxiety or something. I'm sorry. 
> 
> If there's a warning for this chapter... it might be second-hand embarrassment.
> 
> I know this one took longer than usual. I'm not slowing down I just got busy... I'm also not apologizing, just letting you know I intend to stay on my bullshit till this is done. 
> 
> HAPPY HALLOWEEN MONTH!

The longer Aziraphale thought about it, the more he realized that Crowley had explained a good deal of why it was complicated, but had not actually given him concrete answers on very much at all. It explained to some degree what the possibilities were, but still left him with very little idea what was actually wanted. At least he knew, more or less, the severity, the weight, of what he was dealing with, and maybe that would help him find the right questions to ask, or the right thing to read that might help him be more sensitive, more accommodating.

They had a lot they needed to discuss, not least of all the spell-work. It seemed like a real possibility now, and that carried all the relief in the world. They could make themselves untraceable, and -in the process- if they did it right, make it so they could always find each other.

“Angel?” Crowley said, waking just enough to stare at him for a long moment, “You look terrible.” then, in response to the slightly hurt but mostly confused look he was getting, “I mean- er, you _actually_ look like you need sleep... Or something.” he said, wondering if sleep was something they -both- could need mentally or emotionally, if not directly physically.

He wondered if maybe Aziraphale just was not in the habit of wearing himself out in that sense enough to find it desirable. Dealing with mental, emotional and physical stress could be exhausting and he though it was possible his need for rest was more a side-effect of that than necessarily a directly imposed need. He could not very effectively miracle himself rested, and he would not die without it, but it made him feel like he was very much -done- with the world and everything in it when he went too long without a nap.

Aziraphale smiled quickly as if acknowledging and then dismissing this concern.

“Crowley, dear, you know you don't have to... If you really aren't comfortable with it, if you'd rather I always stop you... You don't have to, not ever, even if you keep...”

“Aziraphale, that's not the point, not- Wh- What I, um...” he interrupted him, only to turn very red, “Is -that- why you look like _that_?”

“No.” he defended quickly, “Not exactly...” he said, fidgeting.

Of course he would always be paranoid he had overstepped some boundary, said or done the wrong thing, perhaps more than he ever could have added to that caution in Crowley, especially now. He did also suspect that -one way or another- hearing that he would neither reject him, nor want anything he was not offering might have been what he needed to hear, but he could hardly assume he knew how things like this _aught_ to be interpreted, as there was no 'aught' to be had; that was all entirely up to Crowley.

“I guess I never did get to the point...” Crowley admitted, remembering how they got sidetracked, “The point is...” he trailed off, already blushing in anticipation of what he had to put in explicit terms now, because Aziraphale was bad at reading between the lines and blessedly reluctant to assume anything.

“My point was... People don't-” he took a breath and his voice softened, “They don't touch me gently. Or kindly. Not affectionately. Not with love, not-” he swallowed something, “Not much at all any more actually... I mean... pat on the arm, a peck on the cheek here or there, over the centuries... Casual things, social niceties, on occasion, but...” he refocused from his tangent.

Anything resembling sexual interest that he had ever had a reason to engage with, with mortals, had always been a violation. When the offer had been there otherwise, he had a hard time not seeing the potential of violation in it, especially given that he could never be on truly equal footing or fully honest with a human, not in any way that was at all practical or advisable. It was not at all comparable.

“Not anyone?” he asked, sympathetically, still finding it hard to believe no one would want to.

Aziraphale hardly had a personal sense for these things at all, but Crowley -really- was lovely, and honestly bad at pretending to be anything but really kind of sweet.

“Not sure I even wanted that... Not from just _anyone_ , not- They couldn't _know_ me, angel, not really, not... I didn't want that.”

Imagine, a demon with no taste for sex that did not come with genuine love, and -fully- informed consent. Aziraphale supposed it stood to reason, given everything, given how it might only punctuate that he never had someone to love him like that before. It would be outright hypocritical of him to judge whatever hang-ups he had about interacting with humans that way. They could say they loved him, probably even believe it, but no human could really know them, and he could understand how that might render the sentiment quite painfully hollow to Crowley. Not to mention the question of fully informed consent when it came to sex with an angel or demon, even if it could be called anything else.

“Oh darling...” he said, cupping his face gently, “It's like your wings, then, isn't it? You don't know what it will feel like or how you'll react, and you don't... Oh.” he sighed in obvious lament, “You're afraid it might put me off, aren't you? If you're too, um-” he stopped talking because he did not know how to finish that implication gently enough.

Crowley was already bright red. He could tell how sensitive and reactive he was, and really it made perfect sense. Of course he was also very easily embarrassed, and the world seemed to have given him a deep complex of some kind. Aziraphale could already tell he felt like he was reacting to everything all the wrong way. He was at least managing to nod very subtly now, though he was resolutely not looking at him.

It was more or less accurate. He knew his reactions to everything could hardly be considered normal, and even if he understood why and would not judge anyone else for that, he also could not blame himself for having hang-ups about letting someone walk into all of that without adequate warning. He also -knew- he would not be able to cope with whatever feelings came up if Aziraphale's initial reaction to anything even came off as judgement of some kind. He had been avoiding the whole issue to save them from an awkward, potentially hurtful, and hard to navigate mess, but -increasingly- that did not seem to be their chosen course any more.

“Crowley, sweetheart, I can tell what this must be like for you... At least, I can imagine.” he tried to make it sound less like an accusation and more empathetic, “These bodies, they really are reactive, sensitive, senseless, small, fragile things... Only human, really.” he said, stroking his cheek and hoping he really was saving him some awkward explanation.

Crowley almost looked like he might look back up at him.

“They are.” he conceded, sounding thankful and desperate, “It's all sso much and I'm not used to any of it, and I've never felt anythhing like thiss and after all thiss time, with everything I've want-” he stopped the words spilling out with his own hand.

He could not believe he almost just admitted that to Aziraphale before admitting it to himself. He felt that blush that made it feel like his sinuses were on fire.

Aziraphale watched his pupils shrink to over-sensitive slits.

“... But darling, you know I could never judge you for any of that. There is no wrong way to react to any of this, you know that, don't you?” he implored gently, trying idly and failing to tip his chin, “There isn't a thing you could do that wouldn't be absolutely _lovely_.” he said, releasing his chin gently because he seemed so frozen.

He wanted to keep reassuring him, but he felt like they were past the point where he would have changed shape by now, had not, and was potentially having a hard time of speech altogether. He was mid-thought, about how Crowley still had not explained why it was that sometimes he changed involuntarily, and other times he could not, when his mind took its turn to grind to a panicked halt.

“Wait... Crowley.” he said, trying to collect a lot of suddenly occurring thoughts, sitting up slightly further back.

That was the tone he used when he was at risk of coming to some very upsetting conclusion and Crowley was already gearing up to shut it down.

“Is that... Darling, when you said you couldn't always change shape when you're... It's because of all that isn't it? You couldn't-” he broke off, clearly at a loss for words -at least ones that were delicate enough- but still very clearly trying to express concern for something.

Crowley nodded subtly.

“If I hadn't conditioned myself out of it... I wouldn't have made a very effective-” words like 'mark', 'target' and 'victim' all offered themselves up, but he hated all of them.

Aziraphale's heart broke visibly again, first because he did not want to imagine Crowley in a situation like that and not at a liberty to protect himself, and then again with uncertainty about what else that implied.

Crowley watched him draw his hands back to himself, again, now shaking.

It did not matter if it was because he was doing anything unwelcome or not, if Crowley thought he had to make himself face this alone -feeling like he would be burdening him with this understanding- then Aziraphale would feel right and truly useless, and he could not bear to think of Crowley putting himself through that or that he had in any way let that happen. Fears were not rational. Trauma was not rational. It did not matter -why- he was afraid, it mattered if he _was_. He did not want to be causing it.

“That doesn't mean... Oh Crowley, I haven't- haven't been making you afraid like th-?” he asked, trying his best to hold back very sudden tears, because this was not about his own feelings.

“No! nonono, no, angel...” he rushed to take his hand, lightly hooking his collar to keep him from pulling any further away “It's not like that...” he wanted to explain how it was, but he knew what that required confessing to.

Each of these incidents did not tend to start out outright threatening, they started out with someone expressing some amount of interest; with a look, a comment, a touch. He could not just consciously decide to turn off automatic responses to intuitive situations. Maybe the first few times he would not have felt the impulse to change until the act itself or something approaching it, but after a while it became the things approaching that, and after those things themselves became traumatic in turn, anything approaching that, and so on and so forth until his intentionally conditioned response stacked with the rest and came to eventually be triggered by any situation feeling remotely, potentially sexual at all, especially in the absence of ever pursuing desired intimacy that could contrast all of it.

It did not seem to matter whether it was internal or external either, apparently. The moment a situation started to feel even vaguely, potentially, sexually charged it seemed to trigger a switch in what his ingrained responses were; now even quite separately from the question of any kind of trauma altogether. It was not that he was unable to separate the idea of physical intimacy from the threat -or promise- of being hurt, not with someone he did feel so safe with, it was that the inability to shape-shift had attached itself mindlessly to anything that superficially resembled anything approaching sex, even if it was his own excitement. He had not had occasion to figure this out until recently and was still struggling with it himself, but Aziraphale needed to understand. He needed to know he was not scaring him or hurting him.

“It's not even all the way... It's not conscious. I didn't realize but... It doesn't seem to matter whether I pick up on someone -else- starting to, um, to- or, if, I- ” he could feel his skin burning and he was absolutely at a loss, but he could not keep being so vague.

He absolutely felt like he was failing to explain it at all, possibly making it worse, but he could not actually explain anything without admitting that -he- was getting aroused, and that was something he had resisted processing himself for a very long time.

“Doesn't seem to matter whether I want...Just the moment anything seems- even a little- even if it's _because of me_...” he finally admitted, though he seemed pained to.

Over the past number of months he had gone from convincing himself he never wanted anything more than his companionship, to realizing just how much he craved being held, to realizing Aziraphale was quite interested in holding him and, then, entirely capable of turning him on, to barely acknowledging this had come up before, to almost letting himself realize he really wanted him to, to almost confessing out loud that he had wanted him to for a -very- long time. Now it was sitting out before him, undeniably, and he actually felt like he needed to explain it all; not for his own sake, but regardless.

“You're so careful, and so considerate and sso -frustratingly- gentle and that's why- I want...” his grip tightened on his collar even as he ran out of words.

Even when Aziraphale could be less than considerate in most things, this was always something he had been particularly careful about. There was a reason they both abstained to varying degrees from intimacy of certain kinds with mortals, and Crowley had occasion to know just how careful and selfless Aziraphale was in this regard; more than he knew.

“Oh! You -want- me to touch you.” Aziraphale said, as if realizing -something- of the depth to it, the context of it, with obvious relief.

Well, at least he understood, even if that meant watching Crowley flinch sensitively away from those words being spoke out loud. It was not just that he -could- do things that got to him that way, it was that he wanted him to, but needed to know he was welcome to enjoy his attention under that context.

“A- hhh!” Crowley hissed, before clamping his tongue back into his mouth.

Of all the things Crowley had ever accidentally cornered himself into, in his drive to appease hell or otherwise, conditioning himself into holding a human form, even when -he- was remotely approaching aroused, no matter what else he happened to be feeling, was not the _least_ convenient thing, but he would almost rather slither away under the bed at the moment; and it -unfortunately- did not extend to his tongue.

Aziraphale watched his tongue change as he tried to speak, killing the exclamation -probably of his name- on itself. He clapped his hands back over his own mouth when he realized how forward that had been, and how it could have been interpreted any number of ways, given the context.

“Oh! Oh dear, I'm sorry.” he said softly, but quickly.

Crowley let go of his hand to hide his own face in embarrassment, but did not let go of his collar, not quite.

Even now though, he was shaking inside, enough that Aziraphale could feel it, but still not a snake. Of course, that realization was followed with the one that he had been holding him in his lap on a bed for quite some time now, talking about whether he might like to be kissed, and touching him gently. After that was the full implication settling in that this was not only romantic interest, the way he had assumed, but undeniably also that he was attracted to him -or at least that he seemed to be aroused by contact with him- and _did_ seem like he enjoyed it, or even want to pursue it. That made sense of why he was so conflicted about kissing, if he knew he would want more than that and was not sure where Aziraphale's interest halted.

Unless it was that he wanted to kiss him and did not want to pursue anything else, felt bad enjoying things in a way that was not explicitly understood, that his involuntary responses made wanting to be kissed complicated and uncomfortable. That could not be right though, since he seemed to be trying to articulate wanting something and had still not given him a straight answer about kissing yet. Unless that -was- the complication, but telling him he did not want to kiss seemed too obviously dishonest, and admitting outright to being aroused by his actions had been too embarrassing.

“But, angel, I... Never did get the sensse that you'd want... Anythhing- I mean, you-” he said as he rubbed the cotton under his thumb.

“I'm already sso... Just that you want to stay together, just that you talk about -us- and the _future_ , and... Just that you l-love me, I-” his voice become quiet and broke a little, and he was not sure he had ever acknowledged that out loud himself before and it really did mean everything to him, “I don't _need_ anything else, not more than that, and it's... It's a mess, and you never seemed interested in that kind of thhing...” he said, realizing in that moment how often that thought had sent him spiralling straight into denial.

He also remembered how bad he felt for other people who had been obviously trying to catch his oblivious angel's attention; in an amused kind of way. The one recent exception, to all of that, was him admitting that he thought it would be very nice to kiss him, in a way that made him crave it more than he could ever put into words. He had to be sure he really knew what he was getting into, though, and Crowley was very much concerned he would embarrass himself somehow anyway.

“Oh, darling, I don't know about all that...” he sighed deeply to himself, and to Crowley, “What I thought, wanted, well, what I -assumed- was that someday we might...” he shrugged, “Settle down somewhere nice... Somewhere where we had everything we need, where we could have each other.” he explained, taking his face very gently in his hands again.

Crowley was quiet but seemed to be experiencing a momentary reprieve from all of his flustered and anxious embarrassment, due to a kind of curiosity. He was watching Aziraphale's face quite intently now.

“I never thought about what that -wouldn't- include...” he admitted, glancing away, “I just thought we would figure out what suited us on our own time... I guess I always just sort of -hoped- that everything would _calm down_ someday...” he explained, tilting his head as if he could convince the universe to do him that favour if he seemed sweet and unassuming enough.

He had never actually known when the apocalypse would come, not any more than Crowley had. They could have had thousands more years to sort things out as far as he could have known.

“But then the word was ending, and, well, now it isn't, but there's all this worry about everyone all being cross with us, and you... Well, you've been all over the place, darling...”

Crowley did his best to blink away the thought that -despite never ruminating on it, or seemingly thinking about it in the active sense, by his own admission- Aziraphale _still_ seemed to be full of easy assumptions about what he might be like under various, more intimate, circumstances. Mostly because he wanted, with his whole heart, to focus on his easy admission that he had long assumed they would retired _together_ some place nice and sort out the details then.

“Aziraphale.” Crowley said in a whispery, weak imitation of an admonishment, “How long exactly have you just -assumed- we'd eventually run off like an old married couple?” he asked, feeling giddy and bashful and biting his lip.

“Oh I don't know... You -know- these things sneak up on me... Paris maybe? Almost certainly after London...”

Crowley's eyebrows just got incrementally higher as he spoke.

“I didn't _mean_ to assume but, well, it seemed to be something you'd want...”

He could just assume they would effectively be married someday, but could not just assume something as small and simple as a kiss in case it was ultimately unwanted. Crowley tried to hide that he almost licked his lip. It made him wonder just how transparent he had been about wanting his companionship all to himself if Aziraphale was so confident of his interest in that; not that it was something he was ever exactly trying to hide or was necessarily shy about. He had to admit it aught to have been fairly obvious he had been relentlessly and patiently pursuing his companionship -in some capacity- for thousands of years.

“You're not upset?” Aziraphale asked him, though his amusement at it all seemed most assured.

“Oh, angel...” he sighed, now actually smiling, still tugging gently at his collar, “No, no of course not.” he assured him, pulling them together and sitting himself slightly higher on his thighs so he could reach him.

Then Crowley's lip brushed his cheek, making his skin tingle in anticipation before another shy peck. Then there was another, and then another, and Crowley was gently kissing both sides of his face affectionately. His own hands slid over his shoulders to let him.

When Crowley stopped to press their noses and foreheads together softly he was distracted from his own nerves again by a happy little wiggle.

“Mm... You like when I kiss you, angel?” he asked, already knowing the answer, but pleasantly surprised by his reaction anyway.

“Of course.”

Crowley pressed their noses together again, before losing his nerve this time. He was, Aziraphale was fairly certain now, just losing his nerve. It was probably overwhelming.

“Crowley, dear, all of this, do you mean- Are you trying to tell me that you -do, actually- want me to kiss you? That you just, that you wanted me to know what it could...?” he said, safely leaving the rest -what it could mean to him or how he might react- implied because Crowley was already nodding subtly.

He felt another subtle tug at his collar, another invitation.

“Dearest, you know I've been avoiding this context exactly?” he implored him, “In bed, like this... In case... I wouldn't want anything to get carried away...”

At precisely that moment Crowley was still straddling his thighs, as incidental as that had initially been, melting slightly into his hands, and had just made a subtle sound that suggested he thought being so careful with him, was in fact -very- sexy of him. That seemed like a perfect recipe for suddenly going very much faster than either of them meant to.

“I know.” he said, as if embarrassed and pained, but still a little too distracted by everything else he was feeling to fully engage with the former two.

That was when another realization fully clicked. The more he was cautious and considerate, and the more he held him back, not out of rejection but out of concern and respect, and the more Crowley felt safe and loved, the more obviously Crowley seemed to want exactly what he was holding back from. Now he seemed almost hypnotized, taking his turn to study the air between them and exact distance to cross before their lips could touch.

“Oh.” Aziraphale said a handful of times under his breath as each level of that realization occurred to him, watching Crowley turn progressively more red with each word, now clearly and undeniably embarrassed, edging on uncertain again.

“Oh, _darling_...” he trailed off, now pressing his own lips together subtly, feeling for the words that should be there.

“Can I hold you?” Aziraphale asked very softly, slipping his arms gently off his shoulders, running his hands very lightly down his arms.

His arms felt very cold, so he imagined that was why he shivered and squirmed slightly before pressing his hands to his arms firmly and nodding enthusiastically. He gathered him to him in every sense that he could. He was not sure that making him feel as safe and secure as possible would -exactly- help all around, but he was not sure what else to do when he seemed teetering on some edge between embarrassment and feeling outright ashamed.

“Come here, then.”

Crowley let himself be turned slightly so their position, which had started off haphazard, could no longer slowly escalate in suggestiveness, and so he could be wrapped up securely in his arms. He was no less in his lap of course, but now he had been scooped up into warmth and comfort instead. He could feel the subtle shaking in his own chest, a reaction he could hardly help, knowing Aziraphale was coming to realize, even as he was, what he had really come to want, at least something of it. He could only imagine the conclusions he might be drawing, accurate or not, but then, this did not feel like rejection or judgement, and it did not quite seem like pity.

Still, now he imagined Aziraphale would clarify the intent behind his affection, or explain that he just was not interested in the kind of thing with anyone, that it was not personal, that he did not quite realize the extent of it when he had been so accepting before, or -at least- explain that it was too much all at once and that he would need a good deal of time to sort through it all. That was all if he clung to the hope that he was not about to delicately explain why the whole concept of anything more than kissing was outright repellent to him altogether.

“I have never -in over six millennia- seen you this out of sorts over anything.” he sighed, tucking his knees in together against him and making sure he was wrapped in as snugly as possible.

It was not an exaggeration, and he had seen him face down the potential of being destroyed completely and the world actually ending.

“...And I'm beginning to think that I'm still not making myself quite clear enough... Perhaps not being specific, or direct enough...” he thought out loud, though 'probably' or 'definitely' may have been better -more direct and accurate- word choices.

In general he was not sure where exactly to start, mostly because he was uncertain what he -had- communicated already that Crowley had just failed to process -yet- and was, in turn, not quite sure what parts were and were not getting through, or exactly what he was hung up on. All he knew was that Crowley seemed to be very distressed about something that -from what he understood of the situation- should not be _that_ distressing. It made him think one of them was missing something.

“You know, dear... You haven't exactly given me the impression you would be interested in any such thing _either_... Though I'm coming to understand something of why, and why it's, well, complicated.” he said, thinking that was as fair a place to start as any.

“...And I can only begin to guess at why you might have avoided the issue, if it _had_ come up before... I'm afraid I've been rather dismissive of any...” he held him tighter and rubbed at his arms gently to warm them, “Well, I haven't- I've been rather reluctant to admit any kind of affection or attachment, and I'm not sure I -could- apologize enough... But I'm also not sure you've completely understood why, or what I meant by it all, not exactly.” he tried to explain, feeling like he was probably just prattling ineffectively, whether or not that was objectively true.

“I suppose I've made a great deal of pretence about it all... Even to myself, really, and I can hardly blame you for ending up all turned around by it... I've bought into it myself more than once...”

He had also though he had said a fair deal to him to explain it already, but he was not sure it was quite sinking in.

“You know it's... Well, it's ironic really...” he trailed off with something akin to amusement, though that was not quite what he had meant to say, “That you'd write that you were concerned about dragging me down with you...” he said, hoping that was not still the case.

“But you know, that it's all been out of concern for you, don't you?” he asked, trying to look at him tucked in under his own chin, and hoping beyond all hope he had made that clear by now.

“I'd been afraid I had condemned myself in some way since I gave away my sword... And you, well you were -actually- just following orders... That time. I-” he took a deep breath, “I lied to God's face about it all...” he went on explaining, though he looked mortified, “And I gave it away -knowing- heaven would not like it, that it probably... Oh but how -could- it have been the wrong thing?” he protested, still, despite himself and at risk of getting off track.

“Even after that, I always had the security of heaven to go back to, somehow... Or I -thought- I had, anyway...” he corrected, now newly aware of how vicious Gabriel could be, licking his lip like a nervous twitch, “We both know I was on the mark from the start about hell being quite willing to torture and destroy you. And if anyone had decided that it was all you whispering in -my- ear that was to blame for my actions...” he trailed off, trying not to get lost in the anxiety of it now.

“I couldn't live with myself if something happened to you because of me... And from the very beginning you've been so...” he searched for a word that could sum up everything he constantly read off of him as plain as day that was right there for anyone to see if they bothered with looking, “... Effusive.” he concluded, for lack of anything better.

To say he came on strong, emotionally, was a terrible understatement. They both had some sense of that by now.

“Crowley, it was _terrifying_... Not because you aren't the most charming, lovely creature I've ever encountered, not because I couldn't enjoy the attention, but because I _couldn't_ \- I could hardly have encouraged you in good conscience... And it, admittedly, it often felt undeserved, really... And _certainly_ ill-advised.”

“I -had- thought I had made all of that clear by now, but... Well, what I'm trying to say is... I've never turned you away because that was what I -really- wanted; not in anything. That is, what I mean is -yes- there were times it was all too sudden, too much, too fast, too... _careless._.. But all of that's all tied up in it all being- in it all being beyond us, all the plans, great and small, ineffable and far too knowable... It was never -just- about _us_ , not when we were so much a part of everything else, and when everything else would see you- see us taken apart over it.”

Even now his first impulse was to speak of the danger to Crowley first, and correct it to include both of them like an afterthought, and that had always been the case. Crowley could hardly have not noticed that tendency, and he knew everything he was saying to be absolutely genuine, as easily as he recognized it -the quality of it- in everything Aziraphale had ever said to him on the matter. Hearing Aziraphale put it that way directly was something else though. The warm hand trailing up to cradle his head against his chest was also something else, new and ever-escalating tenderness.

“It -is- so lovely, watching you enjoy these things... I did tell you, didn't I? That I'd enjoy kissing you?” he asked softly, trailing his fingertips against his cheek in a way that gave him chills.

Crowley nodded, conceding that this had been communicated to him, even if he was not sure exactly what that meant yet. He was so comfortable and warm now, he really would just fall asleep if he was not so intently trying to follow whatever tangent of meaning he was being lead along.

“And do you think... Do you think how much I enjoy all of this, knowing you this way- You think it's limited to kisses?”

“N- Er... W- I can't-” Crowley searched weakly through syllables, trying to find the right ones to express that he did not know, that he really could not assume, without actually admitting to how clueless he felt.

“Dear boy, is -that- why you keep... Um.” he trailed off, not knowing how to put it delicately.

He was certain Crowley did not like to think of himself as someone who could be emotionally affected enough to shake like that. If he was perfectly honest, he was not sure how much of all of this Crowley had even processed for himself at this point. He imagined that -in time- more of the pieces would fall into place for him, but leaving him in this state in the interim seemed cruel.

“What, angel?”

“Oh darling you've, well, you've been just _shaking_.”

“Shaking?” Crowley mouthed, or cringed to himself, possibly in denial about it.

“Like a leaf...” he admitted, somewhat tactlessly, “And, well, I'm no good at reading theses things at all, really, but it seems a touch more- a fair deal more than embarrassment...”

Crowley groaned to himself quietly, covering his face, even though he was already tucked in under his chin. He felt ridiculous every time he was faced with how much Aziraphale really was trying to make sense of these things, all for his benefit. It made him feel useless to be making it all so difficult. Aziraphale seemed utterly lost, but he was trying so hard.

“It's not just that you think it's unwelcome, is it? Or that I'd- judge you, or that I'd...”

It seemed obvious, to both of them, that admitting to attraction or arousal was certainly at the root of it, but Aziraphale was not sure he really understood why it was such a daunting issue. He could imagine there -was- a reason, or he would not be like this, but he could not think of what it was.

“Angel, angel, please, you... you've made it clear... I um, I'm not...” he swallowed nervously, trying to focus on finding words, “Not sure you really realize the extent of- but that's...”

Crowley was not even entirely sure it was Aziraphale's judgement or rejection he was afraid of any more, if it ever was exactly.

“I don't think I like the idea of... Call it un-demonic or what have you, but it doesn't feel right does it? Putting that kind of attention where it isn't welcome... Where you -know- it probably isn't welcome, at least not... And I've -seen- the kinds of people who are perfectly comfortable putting that kind of attention on people who clearly don't want it, and I've... Even when they don't... You should hear the stories, angel, every century that goes by and it's still the same... Men, especially men, and all the ways they press, and pressure and insist and push and manipulate and force a-and... I never wanted to be like that, even have feelings like that, thoughts- not about someone who didn't...”  
  


It was bad enough that sometimes he felt like he was pursuing him even after being told to keep his distance, and he knew it was because Aziraphale -had- indicated it was welcome, over the years and in even chance encounters, and it -had- been clear his concern was for their safety and not a lack of interest, but there was a line there, between different kinds of companionship and different kinds of pursuit, and he had never wanted to cross that line, not even let himself think it; but it sometimes felt more like a gradient, like there was not one defined line, and that made him uneasy.

“Crowley, listen to me... You have never done anything untoward or inappropriate... Not to me, and -I strongly suspect- not to anyone. And I wouldn't believe you if you told me you've ever wanted to.”  
  
Of course Aziraphale's first worry was that Crowley might be afraid of receiving that kind of behaviour from others, given his history, but he had not considered how much it could have affected his own relationship with lust and guilt, desire and shame.

“You know... You're -allowed- to experience attraction, dear...” he said, though he knew it probably came with a hundred different careful caveats for him to experience it at all to begin with, “You- you should know even lust in itself isn't a sin... You said so yourself.” he reasoned out loud, in case it helped.

“I know, angel, and I'm... I'm sure it's some kind of... er- hypersensitivity, probably, maybe... But the point- I guess my point is that it never felt right, to want anything like this, and you weren't- this is the first you've really...”

“I am... um, since you seem to need it, giving you my permission, that is, to want things, enjoy...” Aziraphale volunteered.

Crowley's throat made an awkward and weak sound as all his gears ground to a halt again. Little snakes had been carefully oiling and cultivating them and were, once again, left to see what the damage was, as tiny angel lights gathered them up and told them they were allowed to want their bellies rubbed. He had been trying to focus on something, say something.

“Maybe some day you'll even tell me...” he began in a fond and soft tone, causing every last little snake to faint off of the gears.

“Oh, but you -haven't- even really thought about it have you?”

Crowley could swear he felt his heart stop. Air seemed to pass through his skin like his chest was made of vapours, making it impossible -or pointless- to breathe.

“Nh- Not more than a couple slips, not... Until recently, I-” he said numbly.

“Maybe someday you'll tell me what you wanted then and maybe we can-” he broke off because he felt him starting to shake again.

“Crowley?” he asked in concern, holding him tighter because that was what he seemed to need.

“Angel, I can't- I... You don't want to know...” he said, voice small and breaking and sounding like he was about to lose his voice entirely to something.

“Darling, of all the things in existence I'm content to let remain a mystery, I assure you, you -all the things about you- are not among them.”

“Aziraphale, they're not pleasant memories, I messed up, I -really-”

Now he really was shaking, and his skin was getting hot. Aziraphale was certain this was the source of it, and he would rather address that than leave him to keep stewing on whatever it was in isolation.

“I somehow doubt that very much, my dear... But Crowley, you don't have to tell me... Not now, not- Not until you're ... Not until you have whatever you need to be comfortable telling me.”

“I think I have to... Tell you, I mean... Maybe you have the right to know... Especially if... If we- _If you still want to..._ ”

“Crowley, you can't -really- believe I'd judge you so harshly...” he sighed, though he did not want to make him feel bad for whatever anxiety he had, “Darling...” he said, taking one hand gently away from his face to slowly tease at the possibility of kissing it, “If it were me, in your place... Would you judge me for these things?”

“No.” he said, very automatically, “But that's-”

“How is it different?” he asked, holding his hand to his lips gently.

Crowley had to admit he did not have a good answer. If he thought of blaming anyone else for the same things it felt all wrong. He had -in fact- argued people out of similar internalized judgements before. What he knew was a bit of a separate question from how he felt though.

“And would it keep you from wanting to kiss me?” he asked, kissing the back of his hand gently.

“No...” he relented.

“Then, I forgive you... If you need it, and for whatever you feel like you might have done wrong... I forgive you.” he said, kissing his hand again, as if it really was that simple.

“Angel, you can't...”  
  


“I can. If it has to do with me, and if they're things you feel like I should know, then it's up to me and I forgive you.” he insisted.

He almost thought he heard a ghost of a laugh in his breath.

It's not that... Just because -I'd- forgive it doesn't mean...”

“Oh, so now you're the forgiving one?” he teased him.

“Angel.” he almost whined.

“Tell me the least of it then? ... And I'll tell you you're still forgiven.”

The problem was that the least of it, was probably also the least forgivable, objectively speaking, if he could be objective, but at least it was something he had some context for now, having read the journals. He sighed deeply, resigned. He did not want any of this to come as an ugly surprise after he went through with something like kissing him, and it really seemed like that might actually happen.

“You remember those journals that you were so fixated on?” he asked, tilting his head a little flippantly.

“Yes.” he said, really quite fondly.

“You remember how warding against angels requires energy -from- an angel? Angelic grace and the like?” he tested, waiting to see if he would back down.

“Yes... Actually I -had- been wondering how you managed that.”

“Did you know that when angels cry, when they -really- weep, real tears, angel, not just their vessel, but _them_... Like you did, all over those stone walls, in genuine crisis, small amounts of their energy gets all mixed up in them? It's not quite like holy water, not really intended to purify the same way, and a lot more personal than that...”

Dear boy, _that's_ your first confession?” he asked, almost laughing, “That you stole my tears and used them to keep me from having to -smite- mortals?” he asked, actually incredulous.

Never mind the fact that he could either handle angelic grace without sustaining significant injury or had been doing something very risky, for his benefit, even back when they hardly knew each other.

“Without asking, and without telling you.” he reminded him defensively.

That was fair enough, to take something of someone without their knowledge and put it towards an end did seem to violate their autonomy, but it was also true he -had- given his consent.

“Crowley... I _distinctly_ recall begging to -anyone- who would hear me, that I would give -anything- not to have to... Surely that qualifies as permission.”

“ _Should_ consent be made of technicalities and excuses?” he tested, “Could you have known -even suspected- it was a demon's ears your prayers were reaching?”

“Well, no, but I'm not sure that's what this _was_... And you hardly could have asked and still been protecting me the same way, though I -do- wish you had told me sooner...” he got slightly off track, “And no, no Crowley, I couldn't have had any reason to suspect that a demon would hear me crying and act to save me, like they were -my- guardian angel, when everyone else was turning a deaf ear to anything I had to say... but _Crowley_... Requested blessings hardly become a betrayal when they come from an unexpected source.”

“I don't have to tell you how personal an angel's tears are... Angel.”

“Well, no, of course not, but... Oh be -practical- Crowley... You were back then...” he admitted and then admonished with a disaffected eyebrow quirk.

“Yeah? You want to know what else I did with them then?” he asked, his impulse to nip at him warring with his own guilt.

“If all of your confessions are like this... Please -do- tell me.”

“I also made a charm... Something anyone could carry around to hide them from angels...”

“Oh? Is that how you made them disappear to whisk them away to do the spell-work properly?” he raised his eyebrow again, countering the challenge.

“W- well, yeah that's... what I made it for... But I kept it after that... Never told you about it... Still have it now, actually.”

He had no idea, but of course, if it was meant to keep itself and anything it associated to from his notice, and keep him from noticing that anything was quite missing, that would make sense.

“Crowley... That's far too useful of a thing to discard or destroy... To both of us. I'd have been glad to know you had it, and I know -why- you couldn't have told me without having to explain a lot more... I forgive you, of course I do...”

It did raise questions of why he had not used it in combination with his own warding to hide himself away so he would be safe, but that line of questioning was -somehow- a distraction to what was really important at the moment. He also realized the truth was probably that it had likely weakened in time and he knew -from the journals- that kind of warding, just carried around, could only do so much to obscure beings like _them_ when far more powerful celestials were looking for them, and right at them.

“Even if I've used it to hide from you?” he asked, defensive but now also shaking.

That stung. Of course it did. His reply took longer this time and he was back to soft and subdued.

“Darling... If I've ever given you a reason to feel the need to hide from me, I think you had the right to do so... Even if I did worry that I couldn't find you, or sense you sometimes... I have said some awful things to you, and I know I've upset you terribly before... Our options for things like real privacy are so limited... Of course I forgive you, I'd just ask that, from now on, you tell me when you want to be away from me, and I'll respect that, of course I will.” he soothed him, rubbing the back of his arm again.

Of course, Crowley knew that he could never want to be away from him again, but that was not the kind of thing you just blurted out at a moment like this, even if you were Crowley.

“And if I've used it to trick you?” he asked, done with his own challenges and shrinking to his chest.

“Trick me? On purpose? How so?”  
  


Let alone that it did not actually sound like him at all to deceive him, he was not even sure of the possible logistics of it.

“On pur...” he almost mocked him, but he supposed this confession also came with the embarrassing fact that he had never meant for it to happen at all, had been trapped -tricked himself to some extent- in a web of his own machinations.

“Crowley?” he asked, teetering between concerned and amused, uncertain which way to fall yet.

“Of course not -on purpose- not... Not exactly.” he muttered into his chest.

This was not the worst of it, not exactly, but it was the one tale to tell where he had actually had the most agency and was ultimately responsible for the whole affair. The one that had actually dragged Aziraphale into something he did not need to be involved with.

“Oh darling... Please... If you could ever bring yourself to tell me.”

He could not help but be curious. That sounded like a real story, and if everything else that had come to light recently was any indication, he wanted to know what he had been so wrapped up in, and wholly oblivious to.

“Aziraphale...” he groaned, “It's... This one- eh-is uh, also _embarrassing_...” he said, almost mournfully.

“Oh... well, that's...”

“For both of us, come to think...” he realized out-loud.

“Oh dear...”

“Are you sure you want to know?” Crowley asked, wincing.

“If- ah, well, if you think you can handle telling me... I'm sure I'll survive.” he reasoned slowly, looking a bit pale.

“If you can promise to listen till I'm done... Then, I'll tell you.”

The worst part of it was that he would likely figure it out fairly early on, he had been -there- after all, and would probably struggle not to form conclusions or ask questions until he was done explaining the whole thing. Crowley was, at this point, completely resigned to the idea that he would die of embarrassment anyway.

~*~

It had been, as he explained, just before the year 1900. Telephones had been invented, and were common enough, and there had long been newspapers. Radio -for entertainment- was a couple decades around the corner. Crowley was supposed to be taking a very long nap, and he was -more or less- in and around short forays into the world. He was starting to notice times changing a little faster than he was used to, especially technologically, and he thought that was where the next big potential was, for evil -or his brand of it- in technology and communications, mostly because it seemed like the greatest potential for _all_ things.

True to his preferred form, he was looking for ways to set up self-sustaining systems of things that had a very obvious potential for abuse and evil, but which ultimately left people up to their own devices. So many of the things he set into motion could suit the right people just fine, and had the potential to be good, even, if everyone involved were to behave themselves accordingly; not that he would admit to that. The important part was to -look- like a breeding ground for sin and ill-intent, and with so many technological changes likely to snowball around the corner, he wanted to seed the ground floor with a few things, if nothing else, to look like he was doing something useful, maybe not rely on accidental blame or the arrangement so much to keep him from the wrong attention.

They had not been talking and -since he was assumed avoiding him and probably napping- Aziraphale had not made much of his long absences during this period. In fact, he would not really question it _too closely_ until the 1920's when it would seem so odd for Crowley to miss out entirely on a time so seemingly suited to him. Of course now he knew why he would not have been much aware of him even when he was up and about.

Still, he had worried at the time, not least of all because the last time they spoke it had been an argument, and he had outright accused him of potentially being suicidal, and he had -at this point- gained some inclination that these long naps and absences were a kind of stress response, if not a growing certainty it was outright anxiety or depression napping, exhausted avoidance like no mortal had the constitution to pull off. Crowley had really seemed cross with him that time and he did not think it was his business to go intruding on his space regardless.

Now began the countdown until Aziraphale would start putting things together. First he had to confess to and explain what his latest scheme had been. He had thought to modernize and re-invent the whole culture of sugar dating; something that had gained a name and some prominence in recent decades, but was an ages old practice. He thought he could adapt current and future technology to allow potential -adult and consenting- partners to meet up or sponsor one another, make their exchanges, trade numbers if they wanted, creating a space where he himself could identify souls probably destined for hell, and do something -not anything akin to what he used to have to do- to set them on a faster road down, if they took it, and save their potential matches the trouble.

It was hardly an objectionable thing in and of itself, it would keep his side satisfied, but also did a lot to redistribute wealth to the lower class, and so long as no one was looking to take anything that was not offered, was mostly a venue for good -not always so clean- fun between consenting adults. Still, it looked -very- good, or very bad, on paper.

The next part of the confession was a little harder, because he had to explain that he had made a habit of posing as a sugar-baby himself in order to get a read on people, often keeping up long interactions with them, long-distance, usually in writing, to allow them the opportunity to start trying to pressure, demand and harass or abuse him in pursuit of things he was not offering. The clever part was that they never had to come anywhere near him for them to commit the sin of actually trying to force or coerce sexual favours -that were not being offered- out of someone, and they never had to interact with anyone other than the personas he invented. They condemned themselves and left the rest of society in peace. Of course this had the side-effect of providing a very substantial income stream, if he needed it for anything.

What he had to explain next was that before too long he noticed the other sugar babies advertising through his service were disappearing, fast. He was quick to investigate this, of course, fearing the worst, to find they had all retired comfortably, each of them paid a sum of money that freed them from any motivation to sell their time and attention. A couple stayed on and were only sent higher sums until they too had no need to continue. He had intended the network to take off -to some degree- without him, but that would never happen if one half of the whole arrangement were just being paid off to quit. It was too aggressive, though well-intentioned, and at risk of shutting the whole thing down, killing the stranger's own access to people to help, shutting down the very service they were using to find people in need, and Crowley was being, in effect, thoroughly and mercilessly thwarted.

Aziraphale seemed to be abiding by his agreement not to interject fairly easily at this point, but Crowley was quite certain he had not guessed the beginning of it.

Before he could get too far trying to look into this mysterious stranger, or network of strangers, himself, one of his own personas was approached by a curious client. Immediately he was offered a substantial sum of money, and promptly declined it, making some pretence about wanting to know a bit about their sponsor or what would be expected of them in turn, asking if they would not rather know what the money was to be spent on. Eventually, seemingly because the client in question could not bring themselves to be rude, some attempt at conversing succeeded, and -under the guise of a particularly chatty and difficult but educated persona- he was able to draw them into substantial but guarded conversations.

It never set off any red-flag that personal details were out of the question on the part of the client, and his personal details were all invented anyway; thirties and still young enough to be broadly considered pretty, the money was for academic pursuits, an orphan, no family to speak of, not many friends. The client, he gleaned was recently divorced, obviously enough, and lonely enough to be drawn into conversation despite their repeated attempts to refocus on just giving them a large sum of money and leaving.

He accused him of not knowing how services like this were supposed to work, only to have it argued that he _was_ -technically- using it as intended; to give large sums of money to younger people in exchange for his own satisfaction at doing a good thing. This was technically accurate, but it missed the whole part about usually expecting to get at least emotional labour and attention out of it. Usually this kind of arrangement was used to keep an empathetic ear and receptive companion on retainer. When he could be drawn into personal exchanges, he was relatively private about his own troubles and seemed to want to provide a listening ear himself.

At first Crowley had to treat it with some suspicion that it might all be an elaborate ruse to get something out of it after all -maybe a very loyal friend for some kind of affair, someone too caught up in them and their kindness to be able to refuse _anything_ , no matter how strange or unsavoury- and he did not actually -with his own growing attachment and his own want to believe in good and decent people- want to put it to the test, but he had to; it was his job. The more he flirted or made offers though, the more they went back to a professional distance, though affectionate and not at all judgemental, and offering him ever escalating amounts in exchange for no longer relying on the service. He thought perhaps he was just not the right type to be their final choice, and tried catching their attention with other personas, male, female, old, young, a little too young, only to receive the same treatment. It was incredibly frustrating, but also truly endearing.

Usually Crowley was disgusted with the behaviour that this kind of anonymity and advantage brought out in people, but this was the opposite. He was absolutely the exact opposite of disgusted, whatever that even was. After a while Crowley himself lost track of the network or what it was doing, if it had survived at all, and had found solace himself in having someone reliable to talk to who was always concerned with how he was feeling and who was so completely unassuming, and genuinely generous. He even felt bad having to accept at least small amounts of money just to keep him corresponding with him.

See, this man did not like the idea that any of these people might only be opting into arrangements like this because they needed it for financial security, so by the time he was done with it, the only people left were the ones there, not for the money, but because it was their preferred way to date people. What was worse was that now Crowley thoroughly believed him, and was having his own efforts -to keep people using the service safe- completely outdone and rendered futile. He could keep trolling with his personas for the bottom of the barrel and using it to help damned souls along, but all of his personas became hard pressed to keep making themselves talk to abusive partners when he could be one person, nearly himself, and talk to the gentleman instead.

He had never encountered a man so genuinely kind, especially one who clearly had enough wealth and influence to do what they wanted, and pay off anyone for anything. Their interactions quickly turned from attempting to get the man to reveal himself for what he really was, to a kind of desperate curiosity about who this stranger could even be. Their interactions had started with codes in newspapers and moved on to printed letters, again to protect their identities, and he could not find any record of the man's name anywhere. Attempts to trace the path of the letters failed spectacularly every time. Before too long at all he absolutely considered this man his friend and the more he politely declined his offers for increases in intimacy or making himself increasingly vulnerable to him in some way, the more he just wanted to spend time with him, meet him in person and put a face to all these interactions.

What he was confessing to now, to himself as much as anyone, was that he had started to feel very particular kinds of affection for this person that he never thought he would be capable of feeling for a human, or mostly anyone. It had filled his chest with a giddy warmth and a poorly defined longing.

In all and complete honesty, which he had to detail now, the whole ordeal made him miss Aziraphale terribly, which he also confessed to, but they had been disagreeing at the moment. Crowley was still angry, and hurt, mostly because his accusations had come with such a mischaracterization of himself and their relationship. It made him feel like Aziraphale did not actually know him very well at all, not as well as he should have by then, and the way he was still so ready to dismiss their significance to each other was a sting he was tired of feeling. This was not news to either of them.

He had never had an interest in finding companionship with humans before, and he had his misgivings about this, but he just wanted to meet him. He could hardly pursue anything else, not when their whole relationship was based on the dishonesty of the ruse that started it, but their friendship had only ever benefited them, and -if he dared to hope- there was no rule saying he could not explain everything to him if it came to it. If there really was a man so truly decent, so selfless that none of his temptations had worked, as half-hearted as they had become, he just wanted to confirm it for himself. He could admit to being drawn in by the polite and guarded, but honest affection, and the compliments and interest that were clearly -at this point- not intended to get him anything.

It had taken a little while to drag out of his new friend that he _would_ rather enjoy someone to keep him company, not for anything in particular of course, in fact, Crowley got the strong sense he may well just be asexual, rather than gay as he had first assumed, but he seemed to think it would be inappropriate of him, to arrange to meet at all. It had taken a couple -years- of convincing, repeatedly arguing that there was no imbalance of power left between them, given that Crowley's persona -Joseph- now had enough money to not need the service, and he was still offering to throw large sums at him without question anyway. He felt bad, for all the ways he had come to press him for the meeting, but the man really did seem lonely, and all of his protests seemed to be based in altruistic concerns about propriety, rather than a lack of interest.

Finally, it came time to meet at a designated location and Crowley had found himself an absolute ball of nerves; trying and failing to correct himself every time he called it a date. It had not been agreed to as a date, or with any of those expectations. He was just meeting a friend for dinner, a very attentive and kind friend who he felt incredibly emotionally close to and who was always the most perfect gentleman, even in practice and when put to any test, who could probably get away with taking anything, and took nothing. If he somehow managed to fail to live up to that standard in person, Crowley was already planning a trip a long ways away until he had the emotional traction he needed to go back to trying to repair whatever not-anything-apparently he had with Aziraphale; _Fraternizing_ , right.

He had never meant to get attached, or for this to go so far, but here he was, and there, half an hour early, of course, sat a man in the distance, waiting in a tidy -all too familiar- posture on the designated bench.

Fuck.

~*~

At first Aziraphale assumed he would be told about the only time he -had- managed to properly thwart Crowley's efforts, and feared he would be told about how it had accidentally driven him into some unsavoury situation, then -because he could hardly jump to wild conclusions- he thought maybe he would be told about how someone he met through the service, who had been up to something similar, had reminded him far too much of him in too compromising a context, prompting thoughts he did not mean to have, or -even more horrifyingly- that said person may have been a disappointment to meet after all. However, armed with the new knowledge of that charm, the obvious _certainty_ fully bled through to him as it came crashing onto Crowley in his recounting of events.

“That _was_...” he gasped, before remembering he had agreed to listen first.

His heart was breaking for him a bit though, not least of all because he did remember.

~*~

At first Crowley panicked, before realizing that he had the charm on him and Aziraphale had not spotted him yet, and had no real reason to recognize him at this considerable distance. He slipped in between buildings trying to decide what to do. At first he tried denial, but as time wore closer to their agreed date, he could no longer keep entertaining it was just a coincidence. There was no other man about to show up at the same bench to wait for him. He knew vaguely that he was crying, but he did not have time to process why at the moment.

He was not prepared for the emotional vulnerability or potential reaction of confessing it had been him all along, _least of all_ -somehow- that it had been an honest mistake. He also could not just abandon him, leaving Aziraphale to think something had happened to Joseph, or that he had been tricked intentionally, or rejected on sight. He was panicking and had ten minutes left to decide what to do. Aziraphale might not be able to recognize his demonic aura, if he was not looking for it in particular, at least, while he wore the charm, but he would certainly recognize his body. He hated shifting the appearance of his human vessel, perpetually afraid he would forget what he was supposed to be shaped like, or get stuck somehow, but at the moment he did not feel like he had much of a choice.

He could not disguise his eyes, but he had mentioned some kind of vision impairments before, luckily this persona had at least come to include all kinds of genuine details about himself, that were plausible enough for any human, including his sensitivity to lights and his partial colour blindness, and that was convenient, because that meant he had every reason to keep on dark glasses of some form, and he had not been overly specific about what his vision impairment _was_.

He quickly changed enough superficial details about himself to match his description as accurately as possible without looking like himself entirely any more, different enough; softer features that could be from being slightly younger or just more naturally effeminate; change the hair, something normal enough for the time but pretty, befitting his persona, similar hair colour, but not the same; different pattern of freckles, hoping he did not lose the old ones; shorter, more petite, but nothing too unnatural feeling to move in; less stylish clothing, but still nice, still dressed up, looking to impress. He cursed to himself the whole time. Hide the warding charm. Hide the saunter and walk only slightly awkwardly instead.

When he got to him he was certain he failed, because Aziraphale stared at him for a little too long, with an expression close to pained.

“Joseph?” he tested quietly.

“Yes?” he said, in a voice a little too bright and formal to be his own, “Is that okay?” he asked uncertainly.

“Oh, yes, of course, dear boy, I'm sorry... You just reminded me of someone for a moment, that's all.”

After that, they had gone on with their evening as planned. Crowley kept up every pretence of being far too flirtatious, because that was the way his persona always was. It was an odd balance between intentional invitation and all the accidental seeming suggestion poured in on top. He did at least seem to find him charming, even if he would not allow for anything much.

Of course Aziraphale was nothing but perfectly respectful and appropriate, even to the point of making him want to test him, in part because he was so sure it would not succeed, and he -now- had to find a way to shut down this charade in a real hurry. Flirting with him obnoxiously seemed like the perfect and most believable way to do that. He was not sure there was anything obvious or obnoxious enough for him to fully catch on to though.

Unfortunately for Crowley, the longer this dragged on, and the more it utterly failed, and the more Aziraphale was nothing but perfectly affectionate and kind in his rejections, though he could have easily shamed or admonished him, the more he was eternally grateful for being behind the mask of another person, because it was all getting in under his skin. At least it suited the act, but there was only so long he could carry on like that before having to face that it was not wholly an act.

It would never succeed, this temptation, and he could not in good conscience actually go through with seducing him anyway, even if it were possible, and he could hardly press enough to be considered demanding or too insistent himself, but every physical reaction he was having that was helping to sell the act so convincingly came absolutely naturally and by the time he was being escorted safely home he was a mess of blushing and nerves. He was too hot and his ears were ringing. He could not even blame wine for his fumbling or nervousness because he had been sure not to drink anything, sure it would put him off immediately.

That was what he was confessing to now. He was explaining his reasoning for ending it the way he had, and admitting to everything it had brought screaming to the surface for one disastrous evening.

At the time he had been a mess of embarrassment because it had become so impossible to keep what he was feeling wholly separate from the act at that point, mostly because it had -in a larger part than he had ever wanted to admit- ceased to be an act, that he wanted him. If it was clear in some way he was actually put off by the whole thing it would not be getting to him the same way, but he looked at him so fondly, almost sadly, and was at least making a decent act of looking the tiniest bit tempted, even if that was to spare his feelings. He was looking a little flustered in general, even if that was just because he did not know what to do with all the attention.

He made his case, one last time -knowing it would fail, and that there was really no point in it, not really being a test of anything much at this point- that there really _was_ no unfair advantage in the situation, and that he really was asking on his own accord.

“Dear boy, I really do think I've somehow given you the wrong idea...” he lamented seeming distressed, taking in his obvious state.

Crowley could tell he had accomplished his goal, even though it broke his heart. Aziraphale cold not take Joseph out again without feeling like he was leading him on, or giving him the wrong impression.

“At least walk me to my door?” he coaxed, as his last -and only- successful temptation of the night.

When they got there he turned to him on the steps. He looked so sad, in a distant and distracted sort of way. Crowley could not tell him he was standing right in front of him. He could not ask whether this was about Joseph or about Crowley.

“You can kiss me... If you'd like.” he said, heart in his throat praying for both acceptance and rejection at the same time, kicking himself for even offering, ready to amend that statement at a moment's notice.

He did not know how he could risk that he really might be tricked into kissing him under false pretence, for the first time, no less. Not that he would.

His heart stopped for one dizzying moment when his hand cupped his face gently. He kissed his forehead tenderly instead, and left in an awful hurry. By the time Crowley could think or see again, he was gone. It was then he realized he was clutching a package. This, and the next number of moments was what he had to explain now.

He had wandered inside, some kind of dizzy and numb. His lips tingled with the ghost of the kiss that never happened. His skin was on fire. He opened the package because his hands had no other signal to obey, and he took stock of the money inside and read over the letter because his eyes did not know what else to do. It became very clear to him, in that moment, that he had mostly agreed to dinner to make sure that package ended up in his hands. The letter explained it, that he was breaking off whatever arrangement he had with Joseph, leaving him with enough money that he would never go without, and that he still hoped he would write, at least once in a while, to let him know he was doing well, that he would still like to be friends, if that was what he really wanted, in the absence of financial motivation.

At that moment Crowley had been left with three things: A stack of money he had no use for, an affectionate and heartbreaking letter addressed to a man who had never really existed, and a burning certainty that he had never and could never want someone's hands on his skin like he wanted Aziraphale to come back that very moment and hold him.

Of course then he really did spend a good long time asleep, right after composing a letter from Joseph that he had to stop writing because he -Joseph, of course- had fallen in love but the nature of their relationship had seemed to have been too compromised from the very start and Aziraphale clearly was not having any of it, and it was too painful to carry on with him, that he had to move on.

~*~

That letter was the one thing he did not have to explain, because Aziraphale had already read it and could likely guess at his reasoning for doing it at the time, at what he had told himself to convince himself that those were wholly Joseph's feelings, and at how that was possibly the most painful part of it all now.

Crowley had not expected a number of things which became clear to him in that moment. The first being that the implications of the letter were the more distressing part of confessing to all of this, somehow, even though they were not supposed to be his words, more so than admitting to how badly he had wanted him, or how absolutely he had orchestrated that whole disaster for himself from start to finish. The second that he was -in- love, had been for a long time, had been admitting to it in every way he possibly could have other than just saying the words directly as himself, though never -to- himself. The third being that Aziraphale did not seem nearly as upset with him as he probably should have been, though -looking at it all from this side of things- it seemed pretty clear why.

He looked pained, and heartbroken, but in an empathetic, almost relieved kind of way; sappy, if he had to put a single word to it. He was also crying and that was not at all what he was prepared for. It was enough to snap him temporarily out of his own useless state.

“Careful, angel...” he said, wiping a tear off his chin, though this one did carry a little of the distinct sting of grace, “I'll use these for my own dark designs...” he tried to joke lightly, just anything to break the sudden and intense silence.

“Dark?” he almost laughed though the tears, wiping them away quickly and showing obvious and understandable concern for his slightly reddened fingertips.

He kissed them gently, soothing away the irritation and that undid Crowley completely. Now he was shaking again and completely worn down from explaining, confessing to, everything he just had.

“ Oh Darling... I love you, I forgive you, of course I- I'm not sure there's even anything to forgive... You poor, _ridiculous_ thing, you didn't even know...”

“I knew that night...” he choked out in a whisper, “I knew from the moment I saw you, I chose to keep up the act... I knew every time I tried to tempt you that evening, I knew when I- I didn't want what I did until after I knew it wass...”

Until he knew it was him. Then he had wanted everything that should have come with whatever game they had been playing, for him to come back and take him to bed the way those arrangements usually worked. He had wanted it, and wanted it to be okay that he wanted it, so badly his skin felt like it was burning off and he fell asleep chewing venom into a pillow and chocking on arousal and tears.

“Yes, well, you can blame the fact that I'm no good myself, but I can't blame you for any of that...” he sighed deeply, “I am sorry though...”

“W- _You_ sorry, what could you -possibly- be ssorry for?”

“Well... I know it's not my _fault_ , per se, but... You were trying to get some distance from me, because...” he trailed off, quieted, afraid to be insensitive, “... What you felt, or could have felt, wasn't something you could even acknowledge... Not when I was being so- was so unable to accept it... But I'm afraid I somehow just got in the way of that too, didn't I?” he reasoned, sure he had been being quite hurtful and needlessly prickly with him at the time.

He did not think Aziraphale should be blaming himself if he was incapable of meeting him and not falling in love with him each time, regardless of the seeming circumstances. Of course -Crowley- was happy to blame him, but Aziraphale blaming himself just would not do. Either way, they were definitely both idiots.

“I'm ssorry, angel, that it took all of thiss to tell you... You were _fond_ of Joseph, I didn't mean t' take him-” he said, his voice so quiet and broken, that he could not help but realize new depths to his own shame over the situation.

“Crowley.” he admonished softly, “It seems pretty clear to me now that I -was- so fond of Joseph because I was talking to _you_... I had missed you so much, and I was so worried... Of course I'd find him so charming.” he sighed again, “I should have known... I really -am- as oblivious as you say.” he shook his head but it sounded playful, as far as laments went, more than self-depreciating.

“Oh I take it back though... I don't think my heart, or my nerves, could take another story like that, not right now... And look at the state you're in...”

At least he did not have to sit on the knowledge quietly to himself any more. They had been engaged with each other in this other arrangement entirely _for over two years_ , even if it only felt like it was by some technical definition, and neither of them had figured it out until Crowley had literally come face to face with him. Of course he had no reason to suspect that Aziraphale could end up tied up in any such thing.

“How -did- you end up caught up in all that, anyway, angel?”

Aziraphale, of all people.

“Well er, that... Someone brought one of those papers to the shop, of course... I suppose they could tell I was alone and thought I might have use of it...” he admitted, obviously not entirely comfortable with everything that implied about how some people interpreted him.

“But when they started suggesting all the things such an arrangement could entail, that -I- could expect from it, I- well, at all sounded so... I couldn't help but think of all the ways someone could be taken advantage of... In theory anyway, I thought it would be better to... Well I couldn't just ignore it was happening and that...”

“That _someone_ might need your help?”

Yes, well...” he adjusted himself slightly, “I could hardly have known you'd be handling it, keeping an eye on the whole thing... It _was_ one of -your- wiles, that time though... For once.”

“And you- thwarted...” he mumbled, voice faltering halfway through, a little pinched, and very red, wishing it did not somehow sound like a euphemism of some sort.

The fact that it was slowly becoming apparent that he might be single-handedly responsible for causing Crowley to develop some kind of sexual denial kink was something they would have to unpack much later, given how well it had gone the last time he brought up something similar. He could wince to himself about it guiltily though. It was little wonder Crowley had ceased to bring up -the- arrangement half as often after that point. He had assumed they had stopped needing the excuse as much, but maybe the term itself had also become somewhat awkward for him. Aziraphale still felt compelled to apologize.

Crowley was still a mess in his arms; increasingly so. It was understandable, given everything he had just confessed to, and had just been forced to re-live. The long silence was leaving him to stew in whatever state he had made for himself. He was sure being cradled in his lap now was not at all helping, whatever it was.

“I do understand though, darling... How it happened, and -certainly- why you hadn't told me.” he said, rubbing his arm gently, “And I couldn't possibly judge you for it... Or anything that came of it.” he added.

“ _What came of it is that I took a fucking nap._ ” he hissed defensively.

Aziraphale could hardly blame him for jumping to conclusions, given his commentary about this kind of thing was usually unexpectedly flippant.

“I meant, emotionally, or... If it had anything to do with why you, um...” he defended weakly.

Crowley was about as red as he could get, but he watched him, waiting.

“Well... Every time we disagree it's- well, it's usually because I've said something dreadfully offensive to you...” he said, really regretting that it always seemed to be the case, “And then, just when I'm worried that something might have happened to you or that I've really- That you've actually given up and never want to see me again, you...” he trailed off, almost sheepishly, “You come and rescue me from some blunder I've made.” he tilted his head as if indicating specific events in their shared memories.

Never mind that he always seemed to get himself into needing to be rescued just when he was worried he would never see him again. He also should have guessed Crowley had a way to mask himself from him, given that he always seemed to be able to sense him, or at least sense the love coming from him, until they were fighting, and he did not for a second believe -deep down- that Crowley ever stopped loving him when they fought. His love seemed to genuinely be unconditional. The fact that he could even _be_ surprised to see him should have been a hint that something was going on, but he always assumed it was an ability demons just _had_ , to hide from angels.

“And well, the last time- One of the last times anyway...” he amended, not sure which events could qualify as this exact tendency, “Well, it was particularly um, suave, of you... Really quite romantic actually.” he reminisced, his heart weakly imitating the feeling of fluttering it had then, “But afterwards, from the moment... Well, as a matter of fact, from the moment I touched your foot, you were rather, um...” he trailed off, searching for a word that would not be offensive or embarrassing to him.

He had gone mostly quiet, seemed to slip into, careful and weak vocalizations, becoming rather tight lipped, in an interested and subdued sort of way. Aziraphale was not in the habit of touching him at all, but after the church he had accepted a ride home, invited him in and then started touching his feet, all things that would have been completely out of character if he had not been so distracted with concern. It was at a time when he was still primed to tell Crowley he was asking to take things far too quickly, and yet he had initiated all of that, and it had been their first real interaction since -and he cringed to think of it in the only words he had for it- accidentally _sugar-dating_ , of all things. He turned really quite red himself at that moment, out of some combination of embarrassment and empathy.

“Oh, we really are just... _incompetent_.” he finally settled on it for lack of a more encompassing term.

Crowley smiled at that, almost a laugh, from under his chin.

“I can't -imagine- what it was like having to keep all of that to yourself, though, dear...” he sighed, still wincing forcefully.

“Yeah well, you have to suffer with me from now on then, don't you, angel?”

He would suggest they could make of it whatever they wanted, going forward, but he was slowly learning not to say things that were forward enough that they would distress Crowley so excessively. Unfortunately, his eyebrow may have made the implication for him. At least his heartache and guilt over Joseph being unfortunate enough to have fallen for him had finally been soothed.

“I'd ask, if you were -at all- tempted... But you don't really get impulses like that, do you, angel?”

Aziraphale pursed his lips. He would not say _never_ , per se.

“Not generally...” he said, though he could think of a couple instances where the possibilities had been slapping him repeatedly in the face strongly enough.

He had admitted to wanting to kiss him, even if it was because he wanted to indulge in his reaction, he thought it still certainly counted.

“Stands to reason you might be kind of asexual, being an angel... Wait, do angels? I mean, they don't generally eat much, or sleep, but... It has to be considered needless indulgence doesn't it? But then...”

He distinctly recalled many of them finding clothing for their vessels an appropriate indulgence. Their culture was both oppressive in expectation and highly privileged in general, and if humans were any indication, that was the perfect recipe for -really- weird kinks, if nothing else, though maybe not sexual the way a human would think of it.

“Er, well, um, I might be, asexual, as you put it, if we have to label it at all, more or less...” he trailed off, thinking that term quite possibly did not paint a very complete picture, “But I doubt it has anything to do with being an angel exactly... Not any more than you, um, being, well, _whatever you are_ has to do with being a demon exactly... Not more than because you have a body that's, well, human, and maybe that um... You're all- Wrapped up in it, so to speak.”

“ _Do_ other angels...?” Crowley asked, becoming more animated again now that the focus was off of him and he was curious.

It broke his heart all over again that he could not remember enough to already know.

“Oh, well, in a way I suppose... It's all permeated with Her love, general love, of course, but angels do love each other, in various ways, even specific ways, at times, quite casually even, emotionally, so to speak, and most don't make much fuss about being quite close together, even overlapping, occasionally just because it feels nice... And with bodies... We aren't _forbidden_ comforts like that, though most are really quite private about doing things like preening each other or using their vessels that way.”

“And you're... You used to have these things, with other angels?” he asked, tone carefully neutral.

“Oh, no, not me... I never found it very comfortable, sharing the same space with anyone, being that close, being able to experience another's thoughts or feelings like that... I never really wanted to know someone like that.”

Aziraphale was making a face as if almost grossed out, and -despite what this might imply- Crowley almost laughed. He did remember asking him about -overlapping- not really realizing what he was asking at the time. He had no reason to know that was something angels even did.

“Wait, angel...” Crowley pulled back enough to actually be able to look at him, “Then, for angels, intimacy is all... It's all preening and sharing energy or being all...” he made a hand gesture lacing his own fingers together, eyebrows creeping ever higher, with a pleading set to them.

“Well, we -can- have sex. I imagine some do... If that's what your asking.” he specified.

Crowley's eyebrows dropped into a near-scowl, and Aziraphale imagined that if he could turn more red, he would.

“Not my point, angel.”

Crowley looked like he was going to kiss him again, until an involuntary quirk of his eyebrow killed the impulse again.

“You... You want to do those things with me?” he asked, quiet and soft, already knowing the answer, at least to some of it, but wanting to hear him say it.

“Well, y-yes.” he said, uncertain of what he was admitting to that he had not already.

Crowley seemed to be getting caught up in another moment with the space that existed between them.

The truth was that his anxiety over a lot of things was slowly dying. With everything they had already admitted to wanting, and all the intimacies they already shared, and now even being able to discuss the exact tone of their relationship, what they already had come to expect, and what they might like to explore, it all seemed like everything that was hard about this had just bled away somewhere in the background without them fully realizing it. Now it seemed like the only reason Aziraphale was not kissing him was because he knew exactly how he might react and wanted to take things slowly, and not even for his own sake.

The realization that he was -in- love, the way humans tended to mean that, and with every one of those implications, had finally just come crashing through the noise and self-insulating denial, as if it had been there all along, and now it seemed Aziraphale may have been the one easily admitting the exact same sentiment for some time now.

“Angel, when you say you love me... Do you mean like you love everything?” he tested, voice quiet and anxious despite himself.

“Oh Crowley, I mean you -are- everything to me.” he replied, cupping his face.

“And you want to take me away somewhere, and spend all your time with me?”  
  


“Preferably.” he said, pretty certain they had covered that.

“And you want... You want to do things with me just because they'll feel good?” he asked, before biting his lip, as if holding himself back, now adjusting himself up enough to pin his legs again.

“Yes.” he admitted, finally seeming as shy as most might expect, but so relieved that he finally seemed to be getting it.

“Then we're getting out of bed now.” Crowley said, kneeling more completely to get out of bed.

This was a sudden seeming shift in tone that Aziraphale did not quite understand. He wondered for one ridiculous moment if actually being willing to follow through on these things killed the mood somehow.

“Why?” he asked, still unsure of the reason for his sudden urgency.

“Because you're going to kiss me, but you won't do it here.” he reasoned quite boldly, “C'mon, let's get you some scones or something.” he nearly chirped, sauntering to the door.


	10. Take me home

Scones turned out to be something scone-like, a deep fried sweet bread of a sort wrapped up around whipped cream and things like strawberries and ice cream. It was arguably breakfast-like, if you could get past all the sugar. In some ways it was new, and also somewhat dictated by the fact that trying a trendy new cafe quickly turned into going to a very familiar park and ordering from a new food truck. Crowley may have started off with the utmost confidence that they really could just pick up and go anywhere, but Aziraphale remembered what had happened last time. Going straight from these emotionally intense interactions back to new, public places tended to end in him slightly overwhelmed and a little miserable. He hoped the familiarity and lack of crowd at the park would help him decompress a bit easier, and it was not too sunny out anyway, and the ice cream helped with the heat.

Not that he had any plans to actually kiss him here. He was not sure if that was Crowley's intent exactly, but he suspected, in somewhat the same vein, that he was overestimating how advisable it was to do a thing like that in a public space as well. He was hesitant to even discuss such a thing here, given what tended to come up in these conversations, but he thought that so long as they were still discussing it, it would safely put it off, and there were a couple things he wanted to be sure of first. He hoped all they had left of it were lighter-hearted musings.

“Crowley... I know you were clear that you hadn't thought about it much, quite pointedly not, but is there...um...”

Crowley was already turning pink and searching his expression for some hint of what he was on about.

“Well, I just thought... That is, I'm not sure...” he said, looking around as if uneasy, maybe a bit nervous.

This was the wrong place to bring this up, surely, but they had discussed plenty of fairly private things on this bench -or one in its place- over the centuries. Aziraphale, in his progress in actually processing everything they had discussed over the past while, was starting to draw implications and conclusions from it, and wanted to make sure he was coming to the right ones and taking what was intended from it.

Never mind any line of conversation they had become distracted from by all the explanations that had to come first -indeed, this was a long and meandering spiral away from explaining what he could have dreamt about that would have lead to the incident with the shower, let alone anything else he had been trying to address- but he was gaining certainty that he should not ask him about that again until he voluntarily tipped more of his hand.

One of the conclusions he was coming to was that no one had ever kissed Crowley, not lovingly, not romantically, and not when he wanted them to, at the least; unless he was pointedly omitting exceptions to everything he had said, which he doubted. He was not sure he wanted to make him confirm that directly, especially not here, but if he had ever wanted to be kissed, or had thought about it in the slightest, Aziraphale had to assume that he had formed some kind of expectation about it, maybe even thought about the kinds of scenarios or circumstances he would prefer lead up to it.

Of course Crowley might deny being enough of a romantic or daydreamer to have thought about it at all, even if he thought it was welcome, or even in a very general sense, and may -in fact- try to insist that it was just a kiss, but Aziraphale felt like he knew better. Though, he reminded himself, Crowley did tend to bury and wall-off things that were too painful to think about, by his own recent admission, and it was not impossible that sweet and loving kisses were one of those things. That was all too heartbreaking to think about.

“I'm sorry, dear, I think we should discuss this later.”

“What is it, angel?” he asked, wanting to know what had him so flustered.

“Have you given any thought to it? How you might like to be kissed? What um...” he tried to ask as quietly and delicately as possible.

He watched him soften as if the breath just leaked out of him. He moved as if to speak and his throat made some sound but he was primarily left shaking his head in a vague, almost dazed kind of way. Either he had no answer, or he did not know how to answer. His posture had not changed from very casual, but it was a stiff construct.

“I just though, well, it seems like something that should be important to you, even if you haven't thought of it much, and it just... If I didn't, if it wasn't...”

“Angel, don't do that...” he complained at him mildly, still too soft, wilting towards him slightly.

“What, darling?”

“Don't go... Worrying yourself in circles, or rationalizing yourself into corners, or... Or...” he searched for the other expression that he could have sworn was there a moment ago.

“Or?” he asked, a bit more of a challenge.

“Or anything else with shapes and anxiety...” he dismissed, trying to lean casually on the back of the bench, despite the blush that gave him away.

May as well ask him not to be himself about it. He had long assumed -as most probably did- that Crowley was more than accustomed to kissing plenty of people, certainly plenty of women and probably a fair number of men too, and had just had to adjust his perspective to how sensitive and guarded he was, and how absolutely new and meaningful a kiss could be to him, this one in particular, no less. He was almost relieved they had never had quite the right moment before, not sure he would have done a proper job of it if he was still under the assumption it was in any way a causal thing.

“It doesn't need to be anything but...” Crowley trailed off, his meaning obvious and too sharp to just say.

It did not have to be anything but Aziraphale kissing him. No detail that was in his range of capacity mattered. Already his chest fluttered at even thinking about that sequence of words, and he cringed to himself.

The blush he wore now was not quite gentle or sweet, he wore it like an awkward red smudging against the otherwise practised facade of aloofness. Charming as it still was to Aziraphale, it brought to mind nearly ugly feelings of vulnerability. Aziraphale squeezed his hand, understanding or not, he did not have to finish that though out loud here. He would rather finish this discussion somewhere where he could see his eyes anyway; somewhere where he would not be so guarded.

“Not much thought to the how, where or when of it then? Just the who?” he offered, thinking that the _what_ was a given and the _why_ may have been self-evident.

Crowley squeezed his hand back.

As much as he wanted to let it lay for now, he thought maybe Crowley had waited long enough, and -now that it was entirely on the table- thought there was a good chance it might come up again quickly, and he wanted to make sure that everything that they should talk about first was actually taken care of, not just forgotten in the moment. The last thing he wanted was for Crowley to suffer more needless anxiety or regrets.

“And, before the next appropriate moment presents itself... Is there anything else you think we should discuss first? Anything you think you -really think- you would regret not telling me?”

“More confessions, you mean?” he asked, not really looking at him and the tightness of his tone a little ambiguous.

“Or anything else... If it would save you from regrets later, and considering that it seems to have gone well enough, then...” he began, not sure if it was more of this tight-lipped pretending he did not have emotions in public.

“You know, it's not all sunshine and rainbows, angel.”

“I know...” he said, though he did not really want to believe he would be told about even more abuse that he had been made to endure, “but -really- Crowley, do you honestly expect it would change my mind? That I wouldn't want to understand or that I wouldn't forgive you? Or whatever else-”

Crowley knew he was going to point out how everything so far seemed quite endearing to him now that he knew, or that it was better he knew so he finally understood what was needed or wanted of him, or some similar sentiment, but Crowley did not know how to drive home the point that this -really- was in a class of its own, without somehow letting on the particular nature of it, which would only leave him in a sort of panicked and worried wind-milling, emotionally speaking, until he filled in the particulars and details. He knew he had to explain it at some point, but whether or not it was necessary or quite appropriate -now- was something he had little sense of. He would rather let Aziraphale err on the side of caution, but he also really did not think he could have any idea what he was asking to be told.

“What do you expect, angel? More quaint stories of questionable wrongdoings that still get to have a happy ending if only you... Just more confessions you can forgive and kiss away? Forgive me Aziraphale for I have sssinned.” he mocked the notion of it, knowing he was getting nippy.

Aziraphale knew the comment was intended to project some of Crowley's own discomfort outwards in a request for a kind of empathy, understanding, but he also thought Crowley should have known he would affect himself far more with this kind of comment. He could hardly keep up an unimpressed eyebrow quirk when he watched him fold to his own phrasing in something very akin to embarrassment.

He took this as a communication he was getting uncomfortable with the subject matter and their current circumstance. Really, it was starting to seem like they should just stay in private until all of this was sorted out, or decide on strict rules about what subjects were allowed while they were out. He wanted to apologize, but he took too long trying to figure out what he was apologizing for exactly.

Crowley, meanwhile absolutely did not want to let him start apologizing. He just could not quite handle him insisting on it at the moment, mostly because he was so undecided about it himself, and he was feeling a little worn out on processing this kind of thing at the moment, even if he knew his intent was to reassure him, not to press.

On one hand being in a public place put a layer of distance and social facade over the whole thing, which was actually making it easier to put some thought into it while maintaining a better emotional orbit, rather than feeling like he was just going to crash into him. On the other hand, talking about his feelings or trying to process them in a place like this was making him nippy and defensive, and he did not want Aziraphale to think he was doing anything to deserve that.

“'Sides, I don't really know what counts, what else might seem different this side of... um... And the thing, the -big thing- I er, it um, don't know if it eh...” he seemed to shrink slightly and teeter between various mental states, getting caught up on not being able to examine it closely enough to decide how it should be handled at the moment.

It was amazing to watch really, Crowley the wordsmith, truly silver tongued, an inspiration to Shakespeare, literally, until he got flustered and he failed utterly to a point that risked incomprehension. Aziraphale found it completely charming, but he could never say so without it sounding patronizing and probably being taken that way. He tried to take over for him.

“Oh of course dear... With all our chance encounters and misadventures... Quite literally for all of time, crossing paths this way and that. Hard to keep track which of us even knows -or remembers- each encounter, or if either of us ever knew all the ways we've ended up interacting... Remember that time you turned out to be the black night, Merlin -and- the lady of the lake?” he reminisced, trying to improve his mood.

“Oh yeah, you mean those things we've blundered through together... like Bethlehem?”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale admonished, “You _promised_ never to mention that again.”

“What?” he brushed it off, “You promised you'd never bring up Arthur again.”

“It was -terribly- embarrassing, and hardly the same... Wait, darling, he didn't?”

“What? No.” he said, taking a moment to catch his meaning from his very concerned expression, “No nothing like that, just... Awful mess really.”

“Oh but darling, you did so much good. Not to mention inspiring so many stories.”

They both knew how Aziraphale felt about stories.

“Wasn't -trying- to do _good_ , angel.”

“Well you know what I have to say about that.”  
  


He did, in fact, as of at least the past number of months. It was something along the lines of how his failures were not even truly failure as much as unconscious cleverness that would let him do the most good and the least harm, all while appearing some terrible corrupting influence, at least enough to keep himself safe. He would argue that it was only true distance that allowed him to look evil, a middle-ground kind of closeness that might let him seem incompetent, but that truly getting to be at his side provided a close-up view of a sort of kind brilliance. This comment was, therefore, much like actually having said something along those lines and did not help at all with the feeling of heat in his face or his feelings of exhaustion at still being in the park and only half-way through their respective meals.

“Crowley dear, would you rather go somewhere else?” Aziraphale offered, even though somewhere else would either be even less comfortable or exactly the kind of safe intimacy he was trying to avoid for the moment.

Crowley, thankfully, shook his head this time and made a show of taking another bite. Aziraphale's was practically resting in his lap, occasionally being nibbled at if it threatened to drip. He took this moment to take another bite himself. For the moment, they were just having something like scones in the park, it was a nice day.

The problem was that Aziraphale knew that the next time Crowley tried to kiss him, knowing it was wanted, he would very likely close the distance himself one way or another, and he did not think it should be anywhere public, and he did not want it to be poorly timed, not for practical reasons and not around other considerations.

Someone was going to be careful, considerate and loving with Crowley, for once, and he would be sure of it, as much as he was at all capable of being these things, at his very best, at his newest best. It was only potentially the most anticipated kiss in all of human or not-human history and could make everything better or everything far worse, depending on how it was handled and his follow-through afterwards; no pressure. Besides that, if Crowley had wanted something other than slow and very cautious, he had very clearly invested his love in the wrong person.

He wanted to take everything under consideration that he could, but -above all- Crowley's feelings, now and how he might feel later. No one deserved to be treated poorly and the idea of having to earn good treatment was absurd, but if it could ever be argued that someone -could have- thoroughly earned consideration, or had gone through their paces to deserve all the careful attention they could want, he would personally vouch for Crowley.

Aziraphale wanted to treat him as kindly and with as much respect as possible, wanted to give him everything that might soothe something in him or make him happy, wanted him to be able to enjoy it without reserve and always look back on it fondly, and was -subsequently- treading with as much hyper-vigilance and abundant caution as he could ever manage. Besides, if it was not loaded with significance to Crowley, he would not keep stopping himself or pulling back. Crowley certainly would not press and it seemed to occasionally be leaving them at a near impasse. He also did not want to leave him anxiously waiting on 'maybes' and 'some day's, or a relentless 'soon' but never quite 'now' any more.

Given Crowley's current state though, he thought maybe they needed something else to talk about for the moment. He thought, at first, of the spell-work, but then it seemed that discussion overlapped far too much with their ethereal selves and things that -for them- were intimacies that they had both become somewhat alienated from over time and which had no human equivalent. He was not sure he had ever quite eaten entirely reluctantly before, or as any kind of social prop, something to be doing.

“This -big thing- If it's something I should understand about you beforehand, or if it's something that you'll feel anxious about having not told me... I really would rather you tell me, if you can, if you want, because, well, at this point, and forgive me for being forward but... Kissing you really seems like the only reasonable thing to do, and I don't want you having regrets.” Aziraphale said after a long number of minutes.

He spoke into his lap, but he could still feel the overwhelmed stare he was getting, even as it seeped out from under a careful veneer of constructed aloofness.

The only reasonable thing to do. More little snakes were scooped up into warm embraces, swept from their Sisyphean seeming labour with the promise of gentle kisses. He felt like it was possible he was nodding slightly and stopped. They were in the park and there was something with raspberry on it threatening to drip on his lap if he left it too long; he hated that. He needed to parse what the actual question was. If time slowed to a syrupy pace without him quite noticing, he could hardly be blamed. His thoughts felt syrupy and thick too.

If Crowley was going to stop time and afford them that privacy, he may as well commit to this.

“Darling, I am trying, to figure out the best way to approach this, but I can't quite know on my own, can I? If it's appropriate to approach before you explain everything you think you should, only you can really make that judgement... But I do trust you, whatever you decide, and I'll wait as long as you need.”

“It would be a bit hypocritical not to.” he added after a light humoured puff of breath.

Crowley did not say anything for a long moment, but he did seem to realize time had slowed and halt it altogether.

“And it just seems... Well, if you do keep up this habit... Crowley, at this point it feels so unnatural to keep stopping you, silly as that may sound, cruel even, at this point not to just-”

He let himself be interrupted by Crowley's throat clearing and subtle shifting.

“You certainly seem to have given this a lot of thought, angel.” he said, voice subdued, head tilting back.

Now he got to watch Aziraphale blush.

“Well, how could I not... For _months_ , Crowley... and with everything you've told me?”

“And how do you think it should be?” he deflected, now turned toward him and finally relaxing a bit, unobserved.

“Well it certainly shouldn't be here. It should be somewhere you feel comfortable, and safe. And it certainly shouldn't be rushed or clumsy or come at all before you're absolutely certain you're ready... And it shouldn't leave you anxious or regretful, or disappointed, or scared. You should be able to enjoy it and...”

And he wanted it to be perfect. That much was very apparent. Certainly if he had doubts about it, that would not do. Even if they had eternity with countless more kisses ahead of them, clearly it had some kind of meaning to Aziraphale to handle this one as carefully as he could. To him the idea of kissing was a representation of everything he craved made physical and poignant and consumable, something he could feel and revel in, but to Aziraphale it was a promise, a commitment, a signifier of his ability to be as careful and considerate as he needed to be. Of course he was turning himself in anxious circles.

The question he seemed -ultimately- to be asking was whether it was about being forgivable, about feeling like he needed to know in the interest of informed consent, or if it was about needing to understand how it might affect him. The answer was complicated and hard to explain without giving any of the context. It was a bit of all three, to varying degrees, and also a question of whether it would be more appropriate to sidestep the whole issue, just for the moment, especially now that he was as certain as he could be that it was not the kind of thing that Aziraphale would think was a violation of any kind, and telling him was potentially -more- questionable.

Crowley was silent a very long time, but he maintained his grip on his hand without faltering.

“It's all of it angel... Another time someone hurt me, another time I slipped up, everything that's warped and twisted off of it, another confession of why everything is so...” he finally spoke again after a number of very long moments.

“But I don't think it needs forgiving... Not if I imagine it being someone else, not if I think of what you'd say... And I don't think I'm afraid you'd take it all back, not now, and I don't think it really... Er, well, maybe...”

“There -is- a decided reason you think I should know, then?”

Crowley was trying to figure out what exactly he had already admitted to, if that already covered it as much as he could, and trying to determine if Aziraphale had really understood some things as explicitly and to the extent he intended. He had already tried to explain that everything was very overwhelming and sensitive, and if he had not conveyed the extent of it by now he was not sure explaining more of how exactly it had all arisen or anything but experiencing it would drive it all home, but there still seemed to be some very large and very key part of all of this he was not sure Aziraphale was quite getting.

“It -explains a _lot_ \- is why.” he felt like he was woefully under-articulating it again, “Context and fair warning and...” and that did not really help either, he thought.

He thought his cheeks felt hot, until much warmer fingertips gently tilted his chin up to see him again. Now Aziraphale paralleled him, resting his head on the back of the bench, facing him.

“Crowley dearest, is it possible that I'm not the only one running myself in anxious circles?” he asked.

A smirk, almost a laugh, broke out of him for this.

Maybe he had, at least now, done his due diligence to make sure Aziraphale understood and could chose to wait if it mattered to him. It was also possible that impressing on him too much of his own internal struggle could create exactly the kind of pressure and expectation he did not want and that Aziraphale was already struggling under.

The problem, if he put it in explicit terms for himself, was that he was some disastrous combination of far too easily aroused and far more sensitive than he was comfortable with and he did not want Aziraphale walking into it unaware, or underestimating it. He was not sure it could be fully understood without understanding the full context of it, and if he did not start at the beginning it would all just likely raise more questions and anxieties than it put to rest. There was a benefit in him understanding, and it was all something he would need to be aware of at some point for them to both be comfortable, or to avoid some embarrassing disaster that Aziraphale was liable to blame himself for, but Crowley was not sure it was the kind of thing you just explicitly tell someone point-blank at this stage. He was also not sure it was the kind of thing you let someone just proceed without being fully aware of.

He did not want him to be surprised by the extent of it, though it seemed like it should probably be obvious to him, Aziraphale could be oblivious about certain things, and this was certainly one of his blind-spots and he seemed more ready to blame any hesitation, lack of comfort or tendency toward being overwhelmed on Crowley being afraid or wanting -quite reasonably- to avoid any chance of being re-traumatized, which was an anxiety he understood, but that he wanted him to know did not really apply.

Certainly being re-traumatized so many times made it increasingly easy to do, even -after a point- with the kinds of action or inaction most would consider innocuous, and that could snowball disastrously even in the short spans of human experiences, let alone hundreds or thousands of years under the thumb of hell. He wanted to be able to explain that this was not the issue he was struggling with though. He wanted Aziraphale to understand that he really absolutely was not nervous of him in that way at all, not just that he trusted him, but that he trusted that his natural behaviours were well suited to him too.

He also had enough experiences of his own, or those recounted to her by other women, of how uncomfortable it could be when any physical contact or affection always seemed to exist on a tangent towards arousal and wanting sex. She had been told countless versions of a narrative as old as time itself. Someone -usually a woman, though not always- just wanting to hold or kiss someone they loved without the immediate response always being them getting turned on and wanting to escalate the situation -or even automatically acting to escalate it- to what they saw as the natural conclusion of it.

He wanted all those tender intimacies that were not on some direct path to an orgasm, and he wanted both of them to be able to enjoy that without feeling any expectation or pressure toward anything else. His body seemed to very much have its own ideas though, and even though he could control his behaviour, there was only so much he could do to pretend he was not aroused or to hide it. He did not want to be that person, that person who you could not touch or hold without them wanting more.

More than that, he did not want Aziraphale to have to deal with reactions that were vastly out of proportion with whatever he was attempting to accomplish or offer. He was not sure the understanding that everything was sensitive and overwhelming was enough to quite convey this issue or the extent of it, and it felt downright unnatural to not be able to articulate this at least a little bit better, but it was just too much to pile onto a person all at once, and certainly before they even kissed, and embarrassing to admit to if he was entirely honest, but if he -was- going to kiss him, Crowley still did not know how he would react to that, and Aziraphale had made it clear that the point of it was that he enjoy it without reserve.

Aziraphale, in general, seemed set on offering him whatever he wanted in the interest of him enjoying it as its own end, and it left him feeling completely lost as to how he was supposed to approach any of this. He had no model of a healthy relationship to look to for guidance. He had no one he could ask who could understand all of it enough to offer an informed judgement who was not Aziraphale himself. He was not even sure he had personally witnessed instances of informed consent be practised to its fullest potential in this kind of relationship, and this situation was far from simple. He knew he would be forgiven for mistakes if he was trying his best, but he did not want to cause the harm those mistakes could come with.

Talking to God about it just would not do either, as far as potential sources of guidance were concerned. She never responded to his rambling anyway, directly at least. They were supposed to find answers in each other, as was the point, near as he could tell. He also was not sure laying out all of his emotional damage, trauma and pain at her feet was something he felt comfortable doing, especially considering that if she did not already know it was only because she was unwilling to, being omniscient and such. He also was not sure if he usually held himself to such strict standards, at least not consciously, but he was not confined by the expectations of being a demon any more and this situation was the last thing he wanted to take any liberties with, even by neglect. He was sure he -was- getting entirely worked up about it, but he did not know how else to respond to the situation.

Then he felt the squeeze at his hand. Aziraphale seemed as close to crying as he felt. His nose and cheeks were red as if the warm summer was chilly somehow and he could not at all stand seeing it, even if it made him look even more soft and sweet.

“What is it, angel?” he asked quietly, drawn abruptly from his mental spirals.

“Darling you, um, you look quite ready to call this whole thing off... and I -know- that's not what you want. I've never seen you struggle like this.”

Indeed, he had never even once seen him accidentally slow time, presumably because he felt like he needed time to think.

Crowley lifted his hand to kiss the back of it very firmly for a long moment while he did his best not to cry himself.

“I don't have the answers, angel, and I don't want to mess this up... I don't want you to feel like _you've_ messed this up.”

He nodded like he understood, and after a long moment of tearful and affectionate looks he dabbed at his eyes and tried to right himself.

“You know, Crowley...” he began, composure somewhat regained, “At some point we -will- just have to figure it out as we go... In practice.” he said, giving him a significant look, “And I understand wanting to be careful, but -if I may- I do think it's possible, and at times perfectly reasonable, to consent to the unknown.”

He took a long breath.

“So, I suppose what I'm saying is that I understand there's something you aren't telling me, and that it may have relevance, but I don't believe that not knowing it could really cause anything that we aren't fully capable of navigating together. You aren't really keeping something from me, not really, not if you've made me aware it exists and have offered to explain it when you're ready. If I decide to proceed without knowing, I couldn't possibly hold that against you.”

“But, Crowley, I do worry, if there's something I need to understand to approach this properly myself, for your sake, so -I- don't do something- unfortunate, then I-”

He was going to suggest perhaps warning him of what was needed without being expected to explain or provide context, that he would just respect it, no questions asked, but Crowley was already shaking his head.

“Then, if that's not it. Can I ask you to have faith, in us, that everything will be okay?”

“Of course, angel.” he sighed, feeling the shaking in his chest now that the tension was releasing.

“And if I kiss you, will it make you feel like you've done something wrong?”

Crowley shook his head, finally.

“And you still want me to?” he asked more playfully.

“Don't be ridiculous, angel.”

“And you'll enjoy it?” he asked, lip curling in an almost uncharacteristic smirk.

“Doesn't suit you to get smug.” Crowley pouted.

That twist broadened into such a happy and soft smile that he could not even pretend to be annoyed. Suddenly he felt like crying, but it was relief, and easy to breathe away. Now there was nothing between them and kissing except time and distance. That thought did not help at all with how hot his face felt, or the vague shaky feeling he had. He did feel like this had gone on long enough and that it was settled well enough that he should probably unfreeze time.

“Thank you, angel.”

Aziraphale straightened up along with him, taking his cue from him, but also thinking it might not be so inappropriate to treat the suspension of time as the privacy they needed. He watched him snap his fingers, and immediately look like he regretted it some.

“I'm sorry this is all so much dear. I just... well, I think it serves us better to be straightforward about these things. I'm afraid that speaking in so much innuendo and implication for so long has left us... With the occasional mistaken impression, to say the least.”

Crowley was nodding in another vague gesture before he could stop himself, eyebrows raised as if staring down an impressive understatement, but then his lip curled as if he absolutely could not help it. He was the greatest architect of his own struggles, after all.

“Oh? Like what, angel?” he tested, recklessly, or maybe it was just sarcasm and he was missing it.

Aziraphale took his turn to stare down a body of work made up of all of their subtle and not so subtle misunderstandings with each other. He visited the barest hint of a flat look on Crowley before softening.

“Well...” he began, licking his lip slightly, looking for the right thing, context-appropriate but sentimental enough to make his point.

“Like how I always just assumed -on some level- we would eventually settle down together... I might have overlooked that you never had any reason to have that same certainty, and, even, that -in your own way- you had been asking for it, asking what we were to each other...” his mood suddenly folded slightly.

“And I can't help but think that if we had been more direct, even just once, that we might have saved you some...”

He did not want to directly accuse him of suffering anxiety, at least not where they were presently.

“Well, I'm afraid it may have been a little callous... In a way, I had been asking you to have a lot of faith, being given very little, and I -should- know that you aren't... You aren't really at all suited to -uninformed- faith, are you dear?”

Another squeeze, this one long, his mouth trying to twist into a protest for his benefit. Crowley was nowhere near as good at dishonesty as he would like to think.

“All this time you've been offering... Take me anywhere I'd like, give me a lift home... Oh dear.” he trailed off, quickly gaining certainty he had over-shot this a great deal.

Crowley wanted to say something to stop whatever progression this was, because he did not like the dark turn it seemed to want to take, but he had no grasp, yet, of exactly what he should be protesting.

“You never did get around to giving me that key.” he said very quietly, and a little tearfully.

“I had always assumed it was because you thought I wasn't much interested... That you never really offered to bring me to your place, that you never offered me the key, though I see now you clearly thought about it a great deal, or perhaps that you thought I wouldn't like it very well, your flat... But it was never about any of that was it?” he asked, not actually giving him time to answer.

“It never really -was- home to you, never has been... Oh and you've said as much too, just a place to go back to at the end of the day, a secure location, a base of operations... Somewhere to keep things but not _home_.”

This definitely was not the place for this exchange, being too far from the relative privacy of the late evening. Aziraphale was feeling exposed himself, but -as much as he expected it would be worse for Crowley- he seemed fully absorbed in waiting for him to finish arriving wherever he was so set on heading, some combination of curiosity and wanting to know what to object to, no doubt.

“Because... Oh Crowley, how long... Do you even know how long?”

He was not sure he could bear that answer. Crowley's flat had never been home, he realized now, because home had always been being beside him. Of course, Crowley could never tell him that. It was quite possible he could not have even let himself process it. It was too much expectation to put on someone, and he knew -intellectually- it would not have been fair to let him glean this when he was not ready to offer it, but Aziraphale, knowing -or suspecting- what he did now, could not help but feel like Crowley had been waiting all this time to be allowed to come home and had -until recently- most often been denied it and sent away, and had -of course- not done or said anything to impress the implications of it all on him, not wanting to create any expectation or pressure.

Even now, he could not quite shake his head to deny the whole thing and could hardly be expected to come up with any actual words of protest. It was subtle, but he saw his lip shake, and him quickly school his expression into something defensively hard. Again, the grip on his hand was unreasonably firm.

The last thing Crowley could take at the moment was hearing him sniffle, or any other evidence of him trying not to cry, not again, not every time they had to talk about anything personal, not because he felt he had done something wrong again. Everything they had come to discuss of late seemed to leave his angel feeling guilty about something and he had never wanted that at all. Even now he was not quite processing the full implications of what was being discussed, he could hardly be expected to and be functional, especially after everything they had already bulldozed through that day, and they were, once again, in the park in the sun. It would hardly be appropriate to keep freezing time and getting too emotional, or changing shape, just would not do.

“Angel, please don't cry. You didn't do anything wrong.” he urged quietly.

“But Crowley, all this time you've just wanted to... come home-” he barely choked the last couple of words out, both of them now struggling to maintain their composure.

A flippant wave that Crowley gave a curious passer-by clashed with the death grip on his hand. The gentle, but very present speckling of shattered sun making green glow all around them clashed with the feeling Aziraphale could not shake of being locked out on a chill and rainy night.

“None of that.” Crowley insisted, now turning entirely towards him again.

“Yeah, being at the shop with you has always been...” he started off in some attempt at flippant or dismissive but quickly faltered, saying it finally forcing him to stare it down himself briefly, “Home... But angel, I -did- have that, I had _loads_ of that.” he justified more animatedly than Aziraphale expected for how covertly they had fallen into discussing these things.

“How many times did we stay awake talking 'til I just fell asleep? How quickly did you find any excuse to let me in and any justification not to wake me or send me off? Not just now, but since we even made our home in London?”

“But you never got to acknowledge it... I never let you-”

“Couldn't though, could we?” he interrupted, “Angel and a demon shacking up together... What would they think?” he went on, making a much better act of composure, between the two of them.

What he thought and his more visceral feelings about it were possibly two separate things, but he could hardly tell you what those feelings were at the moment, because they were tidily folded away.

“'Sides, if you didn't give me very much -as you say- I would have probably taken the hint and let you be. But you were always... It's like you said, isn't it? All implications and innuendo, sure, but not _nothing_.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale challenged with a sniffle.

Crowley rolled his eyes with a sigh, searching for the right example.

“... Hereditary enemies? Really? Inherited from who, angel? WE were the generation of angels that...”

“Well, obviously.” Aziraphale conceded, a bit tearfully nippy.

“So, you were saying it was like Shakespeare...” he said, remembering how the comment had made him grin, “Romeo and Juliet...” he added, quietly making it explicitly clear he had understood, “Star-crossed lovers and... um.” he added, a complete error in judgement as it was, processing the full implications of the comment in a way he was not sure he quite had before.

Back then -even back then- he had acknowledged that the tone of their relationship may as well be recognized as at least potentially romantic, as little as those distinctions often seemed to matter to him. Else he had been testing to see if Crowley would take issue with the comment or correct him and Crowley, clearly, never had. He wondered himself how many communications he had made that either Aziraphale did not pick up on, or that Aziraphale -had- even when -he- had not. This seemed to drag a watery smile out of Aziraphale, at least.

“Hopefully without the tragic ending.” he conceded, trying dabbing at his eyes.

“There, see?” he asserted with an air of just waking. “You just wanted to make sure we were safe... That I was safe. And I... I knew, angel, on some level, I couldn't miss all of it.” he assured him.

“Still... It's enough that you could have missed any of it... Let me make it up to you?”

“Nothing to make up for, angel.”

“Well, regardless... Let's- go home?” he said, still biting back more emotion than he thought those words should probably warrant to anyone.

Crowley was hardly successful in his attempts to act any less affected. His nodding was stiff and tight, accompanied by lips pressed together, to keep them from shaking, and his unrelenting grip. Even his glasses could not hide how wet his eyes were. He tried to indicate their unfinished food.

Aziraphale snapped his fingers and it vanished. Crowley blinked at his empty hand. He was trying to decide whether to be offended, but he was just finding it a little hard to focus past the idea of such a satisfying and well assembled treat being treated as an obstacle.

“They're in the fridge at home.” he rolled his eyes.

Home. They were going home now; home where they would be comfortable and safe, where they could let their guard down and where he really wanted to be right this instant.

Crowley stood too eagerly, but his grip remained impossible to escape. That suited him just fine. Aziraphale was sure it was the fastest they had ever walked back to the shop.

~*~

When they got there Aziraphale stood back to indicate he wanted Crowley to unlock it. Once they were in he immediately turned the sign to 'closed', and gently reached to take his glasses for him and set them aside on the shelf.

“Now.” he said, taking his hands, “I know you still have the flat, and you -should- have your own space too, but from now on, I'd like you to call this home... If that's what you'd like, to treat it as your home, come and go as you please, whether or not I'm here.”

Just like that it was _their_ home, and _the_ flat.

Crowley was already nodding and obviously biting back a lot of emotions, until suddenly he was not and Aziraphale was backed unusually gently against a bookcase, prompting a very soft sound that at least played at being surprised. He slowly cupped his face and leaned in until their noses met, and then their foreheads, because that was where he seemed to run short on assertiveness for the moment.

Aziraphale had tipped up on his toes slightly to try to meet him, but now Crowley followed him back down to resting firmly on the floor. It was not often that Crowley bit his lip, and less often he let anyone see him do it, but Aziraphale watched the gesture now as Crowley kept them just out of reach. He certainly looked like he wanted to kiss him, and should certainly be assured it was welcome, but he still seemed to be struggling to close the distance himself. If Aziraphale had to guess, he would say it might be some hang-up about being the one to initiate it, given the circumstance. Perhaps, deep down, he craved the assurance that came with Aziraphale choosing to kiss him, rather than passively allowing it.

“Oh Crowley...” Aziraphale sighed, raising his hand softly to his cheek.

At the feeling of warmth, Crowley melted into the gesture and seemed to lose his balance slightly, easy to do when it felt like the room had just turned upside down. He only tried idly to right himself until Aziraphale raised his other arm to hold his back and pressed their noses gently together, at which point he seemed to wholeheartedly accept being held in his arms, perhaps even forgetting he should have legs, and gripped the front of his jacket instead of searching for any other purchase.

“Is this alright?” Aziraphale asked, warm breath dusting over his lips and making him feel dizzy.

Aziraphale himself could not tell if he had done anything to coax him into this position or if Crowley had fallen into it all unaided. He would not have felt the subtle nodding if he was not cupping his jawline where it met his neck, where he could stroke his fingers up into his hair, and he would not have heard his answer made of hissing breath if he was any further away, but -as it was- the response was unambiguous.

Crowley felt like he was waiting long enough, watching him slowly approach, that he thought maybe he should check if he had accidentally slowed time again, but then the bow of Aziraphale's top lip brush very softly over his, as if nudging him very gently to meet him, causing a warm sensation to spark near his heart and spill out in a cascade across the skin of his chest, tingling and making his thoughts stop entirely, he did not know bodies did that. So many tiny snakes bathed in warmth and love until they fainted right off the -now useless- machinery.

By the time Aziraphale finished taking his bottom lip between his, Crowley had gone completely malleable, all except for the faltering grip on his jacket and his eagerness to slowly kiss him back, broken up only by drawing little hissing breaths. He really could not help but smile just a little. The gentle brushing of lips turned into gentle holding, and then brushing somewhere slightly new again in turn, never quite pulling away, but content to softly feel each other, revel in the tingling pleasure of soft and sensitive skin meeting in gentle caresses.

He could feel layers of his being, slowly brushing open around him, not pulling him in, but offering, unfurling ever deeper until it felt like he could let himself fall into him where their cores could touch and make them indistinguishable from a single being. It was all he wanted to do for a moment, but -even asides from safety concerns- he was not even sure Crowley was aware he was doing this. It was overwhelmingly lovely though.

Crowley heard the nearly pained little breathy noise, but Aziraphale was definitely the one kissing him, holding him so carefully in place to do so, and would stop if he wanted to. Instead he seemed to kiss him slightly more expressively, a bit faster, a bit more pressure, an almost-nibble or two that stole his breath and made everything newly sensitive again. All that really existed now was Aziraphale folding and wrapping gently around him and his careful and slow kisses. He had been worried about what his reaction might be, especially to so many teasing and soft caresses playing so relentlessly on such sensitive nerves, but -now that he was absorbed in it- he could not even really feel anything but the kisses anyway. So many new lights tumbled in like shining marbles, unfolding into new little angels, finding an endless seeming supply of little snakes, writing and confused -who did not yet have an angel-light to hold them- to pick up and gently coddle, much to their mischievous delight.

If Aziraphale was perfectly honest, even with all his own guesswork, and every bit of fair warning, he was still a little surprised by just how easily he fell open to him, just how complete and immediate his surrender. It scratched and toyed relentlessly at his heart strings and his nerves. It was all too sweet and heartbreaking, and the feeling of love that flooded around him was more relentlessly eager than he could have imagined. He wanted to bask in it endlessly, wanted to let it in.

He could not help but think that, if he let himself breathe in just some small sip of it, that he might get an even better sense of exactly what he was feeling, maybe feel everything else wrapped up in all the love he could sense and give him some better context, and he wanted to, so painfully badly. He had spent thousands of years telling himself it was too dangerous, but -since Crowley had proven it was, in all likelihood, quite safe- now he wanted to know what it felt like to him, wanted to feel what he felt in a moment like this, but he thought he should ask first, and this was already quite revealing, and feeling his own feelings was overwhelming enough as it was.

One gentle sigh from Aziraphale was all it took to swallow up the last of his reservations about letting his own voice do anything at all. It was all getting too overwhelming not to have some way of expressing everything he was feeling. The closer his breath got to making soft noises that were slipping further out of his control, the more an encouraging thumb brushed softly in front of his ear. Still Aziraphale's kissing was soft and dry, alternating between gentle brushes and light massages, but it could hardly be called chaste, having so much tenderness and patient passion poured into it. He felt like he was falling apart.

Any time Aziraphale idly offered to pull back, Crowley would follow slightly as if not wanting it to stop, and every time he relented and kept kissing him just a little harder, making it clear it was nothing more than an offer. Eventually, Crowley was making such soft sounds that -if he could call them anything but sighs- might qualify as light whining moans. Just as he was wondering if he should pull back, he felt him collapse slightly more and felt a very strong tail snap itself around his calf in a very tight hold, despite the fact that Crowley was indeed still kissing him, fingers still gripping lightly at his jacket, seemingly unaware.

Crowley felt the surprised little breath, but Aziraphale kept kissing him long enough that he did not think anything was wrong.

“Crowley.” he mumbled softly into his kissing, nearly amused, before trying a bit more earnestly to pull back.

He let him without any more protest than what was almost a nip at his lower lip, sweet and instinctive and something he very much wanted to melt right back into.

“Crowley darling, look at me.” he said, still cupping his face very gently, watching his eyes at least make a good attempt at focusing on him.

“M?”

Aziraphale smiled warmly, resting their foreheads together.

“Listen dear, I have every confidence you'll be able to sort yourself out the moment you calm down again.” he reassured him cryptically, “So I don't want you to panic-” he coaxed him, knowing this was exactly the kind of between-state that he was afraid of getting stuck in if he shape-shifted wrong, or forgot himself somehow.

“Wha- why would I...?” he mumbled in confusion, already starting to panic.

Then he tried to right himself so he could asses the situation, but he felt like his legs were actually too much akin to a mess of noodles to hold any weight, and kept sliding back easily into Aziraphale's arms. It felt like he did not have any knees.

“Sweetheart... It's really quite endearing, please don't-”

He did not, in fact, have any knees.

“Aziraphale, why don't I have kneess?” he tried to demand, but it came out like a little panicked plea.

“No, no dear, look at me...” he said, coaxing his chin back up, relieved when he complied, “There, you're safe, and everything will be fine.”

“I- I'm ssorry, I-” he scrambled for anything, thoughts, words, something to hold in case Aziraphale did not want to hold him any more, turning a painful shade of red.

He still looked like he was panicking, now seemingly more so about being seen this way, as if he was doing something unwelcome. His lip shook and it was too painful to see how suddenly ashamed he looked.

“No.” Aziraphale said firmly, kissing his forehead, “Don't be sorry.” he soothed him, stroking his cheek.

“Are you okay?” he asked gently.

Crowley nodded but did not seem much calmer. He pressed his forehead down to meet his again, holding him snugly, especially where he felt the slide of scales under expensive fabric down his side.

“But angel, I- You sshouldn't have to-” he protested, not quite sure what he was protesting.

“Shush... Can I kiss you again?” Aziraphale asked, and that finally seemed to distract him from his anxious grasping.

Now he relaxed slightly back into just gripping at him and being held, though he did look quite close to tears.

“If you sstill want...” he conceded very slowly, breathless and cutting himself off to kiss back.

He kissed him tenderly and lovingly, but not very long. At least now he was relaxed again and looked more embarrassed than outright ashamed.

“Come here...” Aziraphale said, letting go of his cheek to scoop him up more completely.

Crowley's tail let go of his leg to wrap up around them both in surprise at being entirely lifted. This was not helping him look any less embarrassed, but Aziraphale hoped it would help his forming anxiety over this development in general. Now he tried to bury his face against his shoulder as he was carried over to the sofa.

Aziraphale made sure to kiss his forehead at every opportunity. He was sure Crowley had every plan to be the one doing the kissing, leading, holding and carrying, and he was sure he would at some point, but he hoped his obvious state could be mostly over his reactiveness and not -as he feared- some complex about his other form or demon characteristics.

He sat down and set Crowley over his lap. He slithered back quickly, as if offering to get off of him, but stopped moving when Aziraphale gathered his tail into his lap. His tail writhed on itself in what looked like self-conscious squirming. The look on his face was enough that Aziraphale felt embarrassed for him, but he really did think it was charming. This tail was much broader than usual, as if belonging to a much larger snake, and it was certainly all tail, readily apparent because his subcaudals were criss-crossing pairs instead of single scutes all the way up to where his hips should be. Then Crowley tugged the hem of his shirt down to cover himself as much as he could in another self-conscious gesture.

Crowley could very much not handle the warm and affectionate gaze sweeping slowly up this unfortunate version of his body.

“Oh, I'm sorry...” he said, immediately looking away, and finding a blanket to unfold and lay over his lap.

Seeing Crowley's tail in his other form had never upset him before, but he supposed it felt different when he was still half human. Now he seemed to stare at his own tail in confused fear.

“It's still an _absolutely_ _lovely_ tail.” he commented, letting the end curl automatically around his hand when he stroked at it.

“Angel.” Crowley whined, covering his face with one hand and folding into the corner of the sofa.

Still, his tail gave his hand a light squeeze.

He was not used to feeling so vulnerable and still having a human face. Any time he peeked past his hand up at Aziraphale, he found him still gazing at him fondly. At least he did not seem upset or off-put, but he did seem just mildly amused by this and Crowley really did not think this was something to be taking so lightly.

“Sstop that.” he protested.

“Stop what, darling?”

“Looking at me like... Like you thhink thiss is ssome chharming little quirk.” he grumbled.

“I know, I'm sorry dear, I'm sure this is terribly upsetting for you. I-” he soothed, stroking the tip of his tail which was now looping to wrap up his forearm.

“It's not 'upsssetting', angel.” he scoffed, “What if I can't chhange back? What if thiss happenss again? What if thisss happenss every time you...” he stopped, blushing more.

Aziraphale had been kissing him, and then kissed him again. Kissing him was something he did now. His chest felt like it was full of helium.

“Then I suppose we'll have to make sure we're somewhere private until it's something you can control.”

“ _Angel._..” he complained quietly, “I don't even know why it's happened. And you don't seem very 'upset' about it yourself.”

In fact, he did not even seem particularly shocked.

“Well... You seemed to be enjoying everything so much, and it's really kind of sweet, isn't it?”

“ _Ssweet_.” he parroted incredulously.

“Well, yes? That you _can_ change shape when I kiss you...”

He did not want to bring up sore subjects, but it seemed to be an indication that he must feel very safe with him, either that or that he had not associated kissing him as being a potentially sexual or threatening situation. Crowley stared blankly ahead with the vague impression of blinking.

He had not yet thought of it that way, not that he had processed it yet at all. He did not think he could be so emotionally affected or distracted from himself enough to shape-shift under any such circumstance, least of all by accident. It felt like it should be a good sign, but it was also unfamiliar territory, and not the most convenient thing if it kept happening, though it was more convenient than turning into a snake entirely, by some small margin. So maybe Aziraphale did not mind so much because it was reassuring.

“And even that... That you would find it so affecting...” he trailed off quietly, turning pink.

Despite his own bashfulness he still lifted his hand to slowly kiss the very tip of his tail coiled up around his thumb. Crowley melted onto the side of the couch.

Admittedly, Aziraphale's easy calmness was helping him not to panic, but he was still having a hard time believing that he did not at all mind.  
  


“You know you don't have to, hold me or, or kiss me, when I'm like this... If it's unpleasant, or if it reminds you too much of what I am... I don't expect you to-”

“Crowley.” he almost scolded, “Sweetheart, come here.” he pleaded softly.

Crowley and all the energy around him leaned toward him as if wanting to comply, but he hesitated.

“Please?” he insisted gently, taking his hand from under his chin to reach slowly out to his cheek.

He wiggled forward a little, not used to moving like this. His tail was not exactly the tool of locomotion that the rest of his body was, and he was belly-up at the moment. This did not exactly help his embarrassment.

Aziraphale very slowly reached to lift him back into his lap. He nodded softly, but still turned quite red. Crowley had put himself in his lap some great many times by then, but it seemed this too was different. He tilted his chin up to look at him properly.

“It doesn't sting at all when I kiss you?” he asked, stroking his thumb very gently under his bottom lip, studying it closely.

Crowley shook his head subtly.

“Tingles, a bit.” he mumbled.

“I suppose it does.” Aziraphale smiled, leaning their foreheads together.

“Crowley, do you really think I forget you're a demon when I want to kiss you?” he asked, as if knowing the answer.

“No.” he conceded.  
  
“Then, my darling Crowley, what exactly about this are you apologizing for?” he asked gently.

Crowley really was trying to process why he felt so ashamed, certain on some level that was the feeling in his chest, but even when the machine of his mind managed to turn out suggestions, little angels immediately shot them down with obnoxiously heart-shaped arrows. His chest might be shaking with emotions, but he could not define why he was having them. Finally, he was left just vaguely shaking his head.

“You don't think your scales are lovely?” he tested, studying them, slowly kissing the tip of his tail again, feeling it curl into the gesture, or maybe the warmth.

Now they were much larger than usual, on account of his tail being bigger, but the same rich colours and smooth, shiny surface, like a segmented gem that moved on itself expressively. He hoped the sentiment was being conveyed.

Crowley thought that whether or not he made a pleasant looking snake was a little beside the point. He did have to concede that as far as scales went, they were nice to look at.

“Not the point, angel.” he muttered, blushing more.

“What is the point then, dearest?”

“Don't belong, do they?” he said, only to receive a confused look, “On a human body...”

“But you _aren't_ a human.”

Crowley looked away. Of course he knew that. In spite of every effort he made to design constructs of exactly the kind of human he wanted to be and live that way as much as he could, he was very aware that he was not human.

It was easy to forget, in many ways, these constructs he lived through, especially when he always became Crowley, the real and complete Crowley, in private with him, especially lately, not the hard and suave, invulnerable construct of dangerous hyper-competence and complete independence that he tried to put forth, but the sweet and charming person who could not stand to see the innocent suffer needlessly, who was infinitely forgiving despite thinking they were unforgivable themselves, who stopped being able to use language when you complimented them too much, and who was also a demon. Maybe it was that he did not like being reminded.

“Not any more than I am. You are a -person- though, darling...” he said taking his chin, “And, yes, fallen, a demon, and I think that's a perfectly charming thing for you to be.”

“ _Aziraphale_.” he whined, drawing closer.

“Lovely Crowley, who couldn't see suffering and not begin to doubt, who wanted to give people knowledge, and choices, and protect them, and wouldn't be stopped, not by any punishment, not by the end of the world...” he went on, kissing his tail in between each point, now in the space between them.

Aziraphale was now quite thoroughly pinned to the couch, but batted his eyelashes and tipped his nose up to meet his affectionately. The curl at the side of his mouth did not escape Crowley. He knew exactly what he was doing; though, again, perhaps not the extent.

“ _Damn it, angel_.” he whispered roughly, taking his face in his hands.

His posture absolutely spoke of aggression, but, in every way, he stopped short of applying any force. Again, Aziraphale only responded by waiting, studying his eyes and his lips, waiting for what he would do.

“Would you kiss me?” he requested sweetly, in a warm whisper.

Crowley eagerly complied, once, breathing deeply, and then again, and again. He went slowly at first, carefully picking where exactly, careful of the pressure, careful of pressing too much, then faster, then he stopped pulling away in between. The more Aziraphale responded, the more he kissed him the way he wanted to, had wanted to, a little more deeply than before, pressing together, massaging, nudging, eventually nipping at his bottom lip only to feel it curl gently out of his grasp, despite that Aziraphale had not and could not pull away.

He rested their foreheads together, now both supported on the back of the couch, having a full view of his loving and satisfied expression whether he wanted it or not. He needed to breathe, calm down. Aziraphale's hands were still on the curve of his back, holding him firmly, but also making him want to squirm, making his wings itch to come out. That was new.

“There. Don't you think I enjoy it when you kiss me like that?” he asked quietly, then tipped to kiss him once more, very softly.

If Aziraphale did not look so seduced and so pink himself, he would never be able to cope with this. He did not really manage an answer as much as a strained breath.

Aziraphale watched him lick his lip self-consciously, carefully managing not to reveal his tongue. Today really had been a lot, more than a lot, and he imagined Crowley aught to be feeling a little overwhelmed at this point, and likely close to his threshold for it at the moment. An afternoon nap was probably in order. Already he seemed to want to melt against his chest.

“Let's get you comfortable, and we can see how you're feeling after a nice nap?” he offered, starting to slide carefully over.

Crowley nodded and cooperated as much as he could, finally being scooped into place again and tucked in against him, where he fell asleep almost instantly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...And kiss me." It was all he could think the entire way there.
> 
> Well it might be a couple chapters early, but I've decided at this point it made more sense to re-order some of my outline. Besides, I think they've waited long enough.
> 
> I have been absurdly busy and the change in season is wrecking me... but I'm sincere when I say I'm working on this and plan to follow through on it. I'd like to get back to slightly faster updates again, hopefully everything else cooperates. [I'd actually -prefer- to finish this all this month, but I don't know if that can happen.]
> 
> It's going to be 26 chapters. I was getting twitchy wanting to at least write the whole draft because I had a medical procedure at the beginning of december and there -like with any surgery- was a non-zero chance of me dying, and I did not want to leave this unconcluded, or on a dramatic note. It wasn't realistic to write it all that fast, so I didn't, but I had the procedure and I'm alive, so I'm trying to get back to more regular updates and am writing chapter 11 as we speak. 
> 
> There's so much to come... maybe even something a little dramatic! [I promise I won't hurt them]


	11. Don't make me say it

It really was sweet, not that he would be allowed to tell him so, that he did fall asleep so easily. He never intended it to come across like he was making light of it, but he could hardly be surprised, and Crowley needed someone to be calm about this. Sure enough, at some point, the tail that had curled tightly around his calf slid away and was replaced by a satin-clad leg tossed over him for anchorage. He breathed his own sigh of relief. He would have also slept, but he wanted to be sure that if Crowley woke up and was in some kind of state, that he would be waiting to make sure he was okay.

It was not very long until he stretched against him and then very quickly stiffened to lift one leg a bit, checking that it was there, before letting out a relieved breath and settling back against his chest.

“Hello there, darling.” he mumbled affectionately once Crowley's eyes seemed to focus on him, kissing his forehead affectionately.

“G'morning, angel.” he sighed sleepy and relieved, with his usual indifference to the actual time of day.

“How are you feeling?” Aziraphale asked, no longer needing to hide his own concern.

Crowley smiled broadly, unable to help these genuine tells of joy, stretching again slightly.

“'M fine.” he said, though his expression made it clear that was a coy understatement.

“And earlier... It -really- wasn't because something was wrong?” he asked brushing his cheek.

He was relatively assured of this, if everything he could sense from him could be at all trusted to be representative of his overall state, but he wanted to make sure.

“No, angel...” he mumbled, nuzzling into his chest.

Nothing was wrong, it had just been a lot. Even thinking back to it gave him pleasant chills.

“It was perfect.” he said in a tone that rendered the light feeling in his chest audible, “Well, except that- that I-” he began to say, looking down and shifting one leg uncomfortably.

“I thought it was. No exception.” Aziraphale interrupted, voice soft and sounding slightly wounded on his behalf, mostly because Crowley was starting to get that look again.

“'That so...” Crowley bantered, as if by some kind of habit, but far too softly.

If anything, he had expected that a reaction like that, that profound, that extreme, that laid everything so bare, to prompt Aziraphale to become too acutely anxious about the whole situation and go back to asking for space and time. Instead, he had seemed to be practically cooing over him ever since. He did not know if he should suspect that Aziraphale was being slow to process his own anxiety because he had set it aside to attend to Crowley's again, or if something was finally different.

A hundred little poorly defined questions -were- tumbling around in him, but whether that had been too fast was not one of them. The magnitude of his reaction was not what surprised him. If anything he was surprised how gentle and quiet it was. It had been compelling, charming and so very sweet, and he was absolutely eager to feel more of how he would react. He was a little concerned though.

He had never seen Crowley overtly act _ashamed_ , not more than just defensive, at least until the question of intimacy came up, and certainly never about his body or being a demon, not until recently, anyway. Maybe it was the lack of control that he took issue with, or that he assumed Aziraphale would react poorly to being faced with unexpected embodiments or reminders of their different natures. He really hoped that was not the case, that he had put any such anxiety to rest.

“I told you, darling, there isn't a thing you could do that would be anything less than perfectly charming.” he paused for a minute, not sure what else to say, mostly because he was unsure of what he was up against.

It was lovely, seeing and feeling the way he melted into everything. It was something he had been anticipating, even since before he had let it float high enough to be swept up into his conscious thoughts. More than anything he wanted to taste what it felt like to Crowley, first hand, in a sense; he wanted to feel the pleasure he was causing. He had gotten so used to telling himself how impossible it was, that it took a while to fully realize he probably did not have to any more, it was most assuredly safe. He thought he should at least ask first though, and they had not really had that conversation yet.

He wrapped himself and -Crowley imagined- all the love he could around him. It was hard to entirely take from it what he thought was intended -reassurance, probably- when it was reminding him so much of how good it felt to be kissing him, and how he had done this then too. It had felt wonderful, did feel wonderful, but it had made him aware of himself in a way he was not used to, how easily he had fallen apart, how quick his instinctive reaction to invite him in, to tangle themselves together, and how sweetly Aziraphale had folded protectively around him instead of rushing anything, even if he could feel that it pained him.

It was absolutely the kind of pleasant memory you revisited so often you could never forget it, until it was burned deepest of any pattern in your mind, and eagerly, before you could forget anything, any small detail; but it also came with equal shares of embarrassment and -in retrospect- arousal which he felt ill-equipped to deal with.

“Mnf.” his voice volunteered uselessly.

“I would tell you, darling, if you did something that bothered me... You know that, don't you?” he said, kissing his forehead.

Crowley nodded subtly and was quiet a long time before it became apparent he was not actually asleep again.

“Aziraphale?” he said, getting his attention with a tone that was almost too sincere for his liking.

“What is it, dear?”

“Are you sure this... All of this isn't, er...”

Aziraphale waited attentively for him to find his wording.

“You do that thing, sometimes, when I'm upset, or hurt, where you just... Get caught up in it. What -I- want, what -I- need... Wouldn't be the first time you forgot your own comfort, or... boundaries, because you were concerned about me.” he explained, thinking back to the night after the church in particular.

He did not think Aziraphale could realistically forget himself to this extent or over this period of time, and certainly not enough to convince himself he wanted something he otherwise would not, but the focus for some months had shifted to openly addressing his own wants and anxieties, and he wanted to make sure Aziraphale was not neglecting himself in it all, that he himself was not neglecting him.

Aziraphale sighed deeply. He did understand why he was asking this. He knew he had exactly the tendency he was describing. A large part of that also had to do with what he wanted compared to what he thought he should be allowed, especially where Crowley was concerned, but he was hardly mistaken about his tendency to forget his own needs and wants when others were in clear distress. All that said, he had been checking himself for that compulsion exactly, being quite aware of it, and Crowley was actually far worse for it, in his own way. Crowley never became unaware of what he really wanted or needed, instead he remembered but seemed to consciously consider it inherently less important.

“I am.” he asserted, “Quite sure, actually.” he went on, still feeling like he had undersold his own interest.

On the other hand, it was quite possible there was very little he could do or say to really make that point, if it was not something Crowley was prepared to believe.

“Crowley, darling...” he began after a very long moment, “You've spent, quite literally, thousands of years making certain of what I wanted, what I was comfortable with, and being -if I may- quite considerate about what I might want or need.” he said, not quite feeling guilty, but something still possibly akin to it.

“And you haven't faltered.” he added, in case it needed to be stated, “But -though you accuse me of it- I'm not really the one of us _most_ prone to overlooking my own needs for others, am I?”

He did not really wait for a substantial response, especially considering that would take a while.

“I've spent a lot of time worried about what we -aught- to be doing, what's safe, what's out of reach, what heaven wanted of me, what the inevitably coming battle meant for us... Especially if we-” he cut himself off from that potential tangent, having something important he was trying to say.

“But, darling, you've tied yourself in knots worrying about what's right for me, and after everything else, every bit of thought, feeling, worry and attention I've spent on things I felt -obligated- to... I'd -like- to spend time focusing on you. On what you need, what you would like...”

The feeling so akin to guilt was regret. He had spent so long holding back when it turned out heaven and hell did not really care all that much anyway, and they would ultimately end up sided squarely against both.

“Angel, you _know_ you don't owe me-”

He interrupted Crowley before he could protest further. Truthfully, there was a lot he did feel he owed him, but intimacy was not one of those things; they both knew it did not work like that.

“I -want- to, dear... I'm not replacing one sense of obligation with another.” he assured him.

“ _I_ kissed _you_ , remember?” he reminded him, kissing his forehead, “Do you -really- think I'd have done it if it wasn't what I wanted?”

Crowley shook his head, acquiescing.

“I enjoy kissing you.” he said, kissing his forehead again, then his temple, then his cheek.

Kisses, as Crowley quickly discovered over the next couple days, could punctuate anything. They could start the day, say 'hello' and 'goodbye'. They could add emphasis and tone to a statement. They could be used, with permission, as a distraction, or even to interrupt a tangent. They could be an excuse to stop speaking when the words escaped anyway. They could mean it was time to get up, time to go out, or time to go home. They could say 'I love you' or 'I miss you', or 'I wish I had kissed you more' or 'I wish I had kissed you sooner'. Lovely human invention, very versatile, and very warm.

“Wait.” he said as a thought occurred to him, “Angel, you... You've kissed people before, haven't you?” he asked, struggling some to know how to phrase the question he really intended.

“Not like _this_ , no, I don't think so.” he answered easily, after a genuine moment to think.

Of course kisses were a standard enough greeting at times and six thousand years was a long time, and he did not want to misrepresent that, but it was not the same as this, nothing could be.

“But then...” Crowley fought the immediate urge to apologize, “Then that was the first time... and I-?”.

Aziraphale immediately interrupted him.

“Crowley.” he admonished, only a hint of exasperation leaking through, “You still aren't quite getting it, are you darling?” he sighed, “Let me be explicitly clear, then. If it really was because you were enjoying it, and got a little lost, and if it didn't upset you or cause you any distress, I... Well, I'd be quite disappointed if I never got you to react that way again.” he said, his voice dropping and quieting as he spoke.

“It -really- was _lovely_ , and very sweet.” he said with such indulgent emphasis, before kissing his forehead again.

“And you -know- how I feel about sweet things.” he whispered closer to his ear, holding him closer.

Crowley went soft and quiet against him, which was a lot like a response. The little angel-lights were gently tugging at all the snakes and telling them it was time to take a break, that they were very hard working and had earned some warm cuddles. It seemed clear he was content to go right back to sleep, which he did, some number of times, waking here and there, only to decide he would rather keep sleeping curled around him than do anything else.

Then Crowley lifted his head. The impression of a few blinks later he leaned down very slowly, nudging at his nose as if asking if he minded, to kiss him again. Aziraphale came to meet him, trying not to smile so broadly as to be inconvenient. It was gentle and lazy, a morning kiss before he lay back down against him, because he could do that now.

There would be a lot of moments like that, over the week, moments where Crowley would remember anew that kissing Aziraphale was something he could do now, and immediately offer to indulge in it.

~*~

“Angel...” he asked eventually, almost surprising him because it sounded like he had been awake for a while, “If angels did, er... Do angels pair off? In couples, or groups, the way humans do?”

“I think so... Sometimes. I never did pay much attention though.”

“Right, well, when they do, when they have bodies, what... How does it normally go? Is there something I should... That you expected, or, um...”

“You know, darling, I don't really know...”

Admittedly, having never been much interested in courting anyone, least of all another angel, he had never paid much attention to customs or norms of that kind. Human affection and love was far more interesting, but he had never had plans to engage in that personally either. He had very little concept of what should be natural to angels in this context.

“And if -you- are about to start in with accusations of things like... Oh never mind.” he interrupted himself, suddenly seeming in a huff.

Crowley lifted his head.

“It's nothing, just something our 'favourite' customer said.”

“ _Your_ favourite customer.” he corrected him, though it did not sound like he was particularly pleased with them at the moment, making Crowley wonder if they had finally tried to purchase a book.

Crowley was clearly curious though, as he had not put his head back down. Aziraphale rolled his eyes and sighed.

“Well, I noticed an unfamiliar smell in the shop, and you weren't home, and I was trying to figure out what it was...”

~*~  
  
Aziraphale had noticed their smile out of the corner of his eye. He probably should have let it lay, but they seemed just too amused, in a very warm way. He did not say anything exactly, but their response indicated his pointed look was expectant enough.

“It's nothing, really... It's just, I thought you two got together a long time ago, but...” they trailed off into just smiling fondly again.

Aziraphale had made the mistake of asking what they meant. He should have let it go with his usual eye roll, but that would have required less curiosity and better judgement.

“Well, Mr.Fell, if you don't mind my saying... You're quite clearly nesting.”

“Pardon?”

“You're...” they indicated the whole of the shop.

“Nesting?” he had repeated incredulously.

“Well, yes? Home-making, of a sort. You've clearly been doing a lot of cleaning and re-arranging all of a sudden.” they said, saying a world about how that was obviously new behaviour with the sweep of their eyes, “And now you're going on about smells that no one else seems to notice... Seems pretty obvious...” they broke down into muttering behind their notebook.

“Be that as it may, I am doing no such thing as nesting... Just because I have... I'm not a goose.” he said indignantly, a shadow of self-conscious doubt barely gracing the last of his words, not about being a goose, but in general, though he could not tell them what he _was_.

“Well, no, sir, but humans nest too, don't they? I mean, usually when they're pregnant, but also when they start new relationships and the bonding hormones make them all... I mean, it's not usually _this_... But it happens. We try to make our environments clean and comfortable when we're anticipating, or trying to attract new family, don't we? Even unconsciously?”

“Well...” he looked around himself and saw the sum of what he had accomplished and just how much of it was geared towards Crowley's comfort, “Never you mind that.”

“None of my business, of course.” they agreed, a little belatedly.

~*~

“Nesting... The audacity of it.” he complained, as he finished recounting, betraying clear bias in how he described the events.

Crowley was nearly in stitches, for some reason, and -if he was not much mistaken- he seemed relived.

Aziraphale was neither a goose, nor a bumbling and soft little bee, nor a steely eyed owl, like his dreams seemed to want to suggest. He had been spared that by his allegiance in the last war. If he was, this -in particular- might be easier. It being brought to his attention, that he was exhibiting these behaviours at all, did come as a relief though. Maybe he was too hard on their only regular customer, if you could call them that, with their failure to actually attempt to take or purchase anything.

“Oh? I think it's _sweet_.” he retorted, though he meant it.

Aziraphale let it slide with an eye roll.

“I don't know why you're asking me anyway, dear. You would know better, wouldn't you?” he asked, and Crowley stopped laughing immediately.

“What.” he said, not even really a question, as much as the final statement the machine of his mind managed to turn out as it halted again entirely.

“Well... Demons, they're of the same basic stock, so to speak, aren't they, as angels? And they're more encouraged to indulge in all sorts of things, even preening each other... So you'd think they'd be more, in touch, you could say, with what comes more naturally to us, fallen or not.” he said, shrugging a little as if acknowledging it might be silly to have thought so.

Again Crowley had the impression of blinking, eyes widening, flickering back and forth, down-turned and not really focused on the present. He really had not thought of it that way.

It was true that, while they were not so encouraged to form real relationships or _attachments_ , there was some cultural understanding -you could call it- of the way they could feel compelled to certain things, and if following a compulsion towards courting behaviour was less of a distraction from the work you were supposed to be doing, than denying it could inevitably become, then it was understood enough. Besides that, demons, ultimately, were expected to do as they pleased unless the issue was forced, which was part of why there was so much forcing the issue going around.

“Really, it'd be better you tell -me- what -you're- compelled to.” he suggested, mildly.

Crowley was quiet for almost too long.

“Could hardly say though, could I?” he breathed out softly, “If it's -because- we're _not_ angels any more, or if it's because of having a human body, or if it's because we're, um...” he mumbled, eventually.

“Hm?”

“Lots of demons have lots of different instincts, angel... I mean we're all, er...”

They were all cursed to actually embody, in many ways, the natural drives of their animal counterparts, at least when they occupied those forms, but that was hardly something he knew how to say, especially without it sounding exactly like what it was.

“Some demons suffer compulsions like nesting, or nearly ritualistic -flirtation- you could call it, to different degrees, but whether it's an individual thing, the nature of our punishment, or because we -were- angels... Don't really _talk_ about it much, among ourselves.” he let himself put down the awkward task of finding words, thinking it probable he had made his point.

He had turned very red, and stopped looking at him.

“Oh.” Aziraphale said softly, then a couple more times as he seemed to come to realize what he was trying to tell him.

“Well, then it hardly matters what everyone else does, to us, does it?” he asserted, with some relief.

Crowley was still turning steadily redder.

“I suppose it really only matters what's natural to _us_.” he said softly, “So then, I hope you'll tell me what -you- feel compelled towards, then, dear?” he asked, trying to tip his chin up, but giving up easily when it was clear he wanted to hide against his chest instead.

He stroked his hair. Clearly this was a loaded subject for him, but Aziraphale would rather know than miss any kind of opportunity to provide exactly what he would find most satisfaction or comfort in. He wondered if it would be insensitive to speculate at all, not that he could stop his mind from drawing quick, though tentative, conclusions.

He could not help but think that Crowley's willingness to follow him around the world, so long as he was left with a trail of hints to indicate it was wanted, was not particularly un-snake-like of him, from what he had read, and he could hardly say it was not -intended- as flirtation of some kind. Crowley himself turned into a somewhat flustered mess on the off occasion that it played out in reverse, and -while he had not missed the potential implications of that- he had not realized that these might actually be ingrained courting behaviours to him and that he had just happened upon the most perfect possible way to capture and hold his attention; for thousands of years. That or it was pure coincidence, but there was no way of knowing; there was only one Crowley.

Crowley could not help but think that was one very elaborate way to deflect the whole question.

“Angel...” he grumbled.

“Have I told you yet today that I love you?” Aziraphale asked him.

He gave it up for the moment with a sigh.

“I love you too.” he muttered into his chest.

~*~

Eventually, Aziraphale suggested they go upstairs, as it was far more comfortable to lay on a bed, and far more reasonable to change into more comfortable clothing. Crowley might have mumbled something about temptations and smiled sleepily, changing into a smaller boa-size and letting himself be carried upstairs wrapped around his shoulders. If this turned into a week of curling up together, light snacks and not so light reading wrapped around each other, interrupted only by sleepy kisses, neither of them could really be blamed. This had been a long time coming, and they had both been under a lot of stress, even if it was overwhelmingly due to positive changes.

Aziraphale thought he had read most of these books before at some point, and that the information was stored in his mind somewhere, but he thought it might be most appropriate to re-examine a lot of things under the lens of his developing understanding of everything Crowley must be dealing with; not to mention reading some more updated sources. Psychology was a quickly evolving field, after all. It was hard to think of these things in the context of Crowley, but he took comfort in him being curled up to him and how comfortable and pleased he seemed.

It was easy enough not to think about it, not process it fully, while doing the actual reading, keep it more clinical, academic. It was more so thinking about it afterwards that came with strong feelings and prompted him to curl around him protectively, though the entire point of this mental exercise was that precisely, to think about how all of these things affected Crowley, and to educate himself, as much as he could, on what kinds of things he could expect; all this in some attempt to make sure he would be able to help him navigate anything that came up, and hopefully avoid any unnecessary missteps.

He was careful not to be too obvious. If Crowley knew the kinds of things he was reading or that it was affecting him so, he would try to make him stop, tell him it was unnecessary. So long as he could keep himself from crying or seeming too distressed, all these firm and attentive embraces were met with relieved and happy humming, Crowley being perfectly content to be held closer and tighter. The love he felt crashing around him was suffocating and he thought again of what it would be like to let it in.

“Darling, if you aren't careful I'll think that kissing you so much is causing you some kind of distress.” he joked, as another lazy kiss quickly turned into a happily defeated sigh, and him curling up to his chest to close his eyes again.

Of course it had to be partially in jest, because Crowley had not stopped smiling the entire time, the deepest of sleep being the only exception, but it was also hard to miss the nervous edge of doubt.

“I'm not narcoleptic, angel.” he mumbled against his chest.

“Pardon?”

“Narcoleptics, some of 'em, fall asleep when they're overwhelmed... Involuntarily. I fall asleep because I _enjoy_ sleep.” he muttered lazily.

Aziraphale made a sound like he was unconvinced.

“Yes, well, it might not be fully involuntary, but it does seem to be... How do I put this? Compulsive? You have to admit, dear, you do also -use- sleep, as a coping mechanism, I think, at least it seems like how some people sleep to avoid anxiety or-”

“Angel.” Crowley whined, interrupting him before he could get too far along that tangent, “I'm not avoiding being awake, or avoiding anything else.” he said, sparing him a significant glance, “I'm just tired, and besides...”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrow and waited for him to continue.

“It's nice, that's all... Just being here. Not having anyone breathing down our necks, not having the end of the world hanging over us, finally being able to...” he paused, not sure exactly how to put it into words at the moment, “Relax.” was the shy substitute he came up with, which was decent considering how fuzzy everything felt.

They were not entirely out of the woods yet, but Aziraphale thought that reminding him was both unnecessary and actually missing the point.

“I thought we were done being coy about this...” he poked, burying his nose into his hair.

“Being able to relax -together- then.” he retorted from against his chest, “Be together.” he added more tentatively, like a question, asking if that was the reality now, glancing back up at him.

A smile and a kiss on his forehead was all it took to bring back his incessant grinning.

“We should, though... Sort out all that business with the warding before they figure out the trick we pulled.”

Aziraphale did not want to bring it up, but the anxiety would start slowly eating at him soon, that they did not yet have a firm plan, and that they did not really know how long they had. It would not do to wait until they were already under fire again.

“I know.” he said, suddenly much more sincerely, “I'm sure it feels like I'm putting it off... and maybe that's the last thing we need, but... It's... Complicated.” he said, not sure how else to define it at the moment.

“I know.” Aziraphale said in turn.

“All this business of how we can interact, what's safe... I wouldn't even want to test it, dear... As much as I enjoy seeing you-” he broke off, not really sure how to put this without getting caught up in it again, “I couldn't even think it would be worth the risk of hurting you... Even though we _seem_ to have an accurate sense of what's safe and what isn't, I still don't think I could bear to take any chances... But then-”

“Don't even have a choice, do we, angel? Being wanted men and all. If we -don't- come up with something, they'll destroy us both anyway- Eventually... Assuming they don't figure out that ending _both_ of us would be a mercy-” Crowley started to spiral out-loud.

“Don't.” he nearly sobbed, emotion building along with the tone of Crowley's voice, clutching him closer, “Don't talk like that, darling. Don't even think it.”

He could not stand to hear it, not least of all because he had just seen the exact moment when Crowley's train of thought had broken his own heart.

“None of that...” he squeezed him close and kissed his forehead again, “We'll figure something out. We have before and we will again... I have to believe that.” he soothed them both.

“Besides, Crowley, you've already done so much clever work for us.”

“Aziraphale...” he complained, though he wanted to take the compliment, “You -do- realize what all of that entails?” he asked, pleading with him to understand why it was not as simple as he made it sound.

“Yes?”

Crowley just raised an eyebrow at him.

“Well now that we know that there -is- energy we can give each other-”

“We don't.”

“We most certainly do.” he insisted, “In fact I distinctly recall a -very- enthusiastic reaction the last time...”

“In theory, yes, alright, fine, we know that you can... Um...” he trailed off, losing track of what he was trying to put into words exactly, trying to remember what his point was, remembering how it felt and being pressed so securely against him.

“I just don't know what I could offer you in return...” he finally gave up biting his lip to mumble, hiding against him.

Aziraphale almost laughed.

“Oh, my dear boy... You really have no idea, do you?”

He did not know what he was talking about, but he suspected well enough to blush pre-emptively.

“Well, I know you can't tell you're doing it... But if all of that from me didn't hurt you, then...” he was laughing at first but sobered and softened quickly as he spoke, “Well, I've wondered what it would be like, all of this... Just to, um...” he trailed off after indicating the air around them.

Crowley was beginning to look completely absorbed with the kind of paralysing shyness, that these situations seemed to bring up, but faced him with tentative, though growing, curiosity.

“Angel, you, wait... You -want- to, you _have_ wanted to-”

“ _Yes_.” he finally breathed out, very relieved to finally be taking about it.

“Well, it's all- all around me, _all the time_... And it's all so, Crowley, it's lovely, it's _love_ , It's -your- love, and it's all _for me_ , and I- _Of course_ I-”

In heaven, in this metaphor, love flooded everything like air. They breathed it freely and it flowed through them. Even being away from it could be hard if you were not used to it, and he could only imagine the desperation to replace it with -something- if you were permanently cast out, but even that was never _this_. This love was personal, and theirs; his. Of course he wanted to, had wanted to, from the moment he first felt it.

“And you -really- never have?” he sounded incredulous, lifting himself to look at him properly.

“Well, I didn't know if you would want me to.”

“Just the tiniest sip? Not even by accident?” he raised one eyebrow.

He knew Aziraphale was cautious, but in their natural forms the impulses they had -that would equate to thoughts- could often be synonymous with the flow of their energy, effectively an action in and of itself. It was part of why reality seemed to respond to them as it did, and part of why neither of them could blame him for having drawn that energy into himself, it really was as natural as breathing to them. All of -that- was part of why Crowley preferred having a human body, synapses, anchoring to a concrete physicality where thoughts and actions were truly separate things, where they could make wholly conscious choices. To some degree it seemed most angels and demons actually preferred having the kind of anchoring that human vessels provided.

He also knew Aziraphale -must- not have because then they would have known it was safe before now.

“...No.” Aziraphale admitted, knowing full well it felt a lot like having held his breath for so long he got used to not breathing.

“I'd have never known...”

Certainly, it may have also provided him some very desired context, to be able to feel what Crowley was feeling as if it was his own, even just for a moment.

“Still. I couldn't, not without asking... And I couldn't very well ask, could I?” he implored, knowing he must understand, “And well, it -felt- safe, but I couldn't know for sure...” he sighed, “And Crowley, if it hurt me, you'd feel responsible, wouldn't you?”

“I'm sorry, angel, for not being more careful...” he said, pulling back to sit up.

Aziraphale adjusted himself up against the headboard so he could face him properly.

“No, no, darling. You were clearly caught off-guard. If I was suddenly hit with all of _this_ , now, after thousands of years, without expecting it, I'm not sure I-” he got lost in his thoughts for a moment.

It brought to mind suddenly being plunged into the ocean before you could think to stop breathing. It was something like: Someone you kissed, like an old habit, pressing their lips to yours and -without warning- having to think to stop your own reflex to kiss back before your lips could begin to move.

“Well, I'm not sure I'd have responded any differently.” he said, voice very quiet.

“And you still haven't?” he tilted his head, reaching subtly toward his collar.

“I-er, well, no. No, of course, I- Well, I still thought I should ask?”

He watched the corner of Crowley's mouth turn upwards just before he bit his lip. He assumed Crowley found it appropriately considerate. Given how it had effected him, he was not sure why he should be surprised; and then Aziraphale realized he was not. He was testing him for the right answer, reassuring himself of something, and if the sudden shift in mood -which made it feel distinctly like he was in his lap again- was any indication, he had very much passed.

“W-well, I hardly know how it -is- going to effect me and I- Well, you seemed to find it very, um...” he babbled a little nervously.

Crowley's mouth was decidedly curled in amusement and he was almost certainly taking stock of where he might be allowed to kiss him. They had been discussing something, and it was certainly important. One long and slow kiss, pinned under him and against the headboard, later, he was struggling to remember what it was. It was so nice, feeling like they could just fall into each other, and savouring it slowly. Crowley was the one who pulled back, resting their foreheads together and taking slow, deliberate breaths, seemingly trying to keep himself from getting carried away.

“I want you to, angel, I do... Just...”

“Just not quite yet?” he asked, drawing similar breaths himself.

There was certainly still a conversation to be had before anything got too carried away, and if Crowley felt that it should also come before feeling the full range of his very complicated feelings over this, he could understand that. Crowley nodded sombrely, sitting back enough to look at him properly again.

“Well, when you're ready...” he sighed.

The nod he got seemed less than enthused.

“Crowley, darling, I really do mean that... I know there's a lot to work through, to make this comfortable, or approachable...” he said, taking his chin lightly, “But it doesn't do any good, making you talk about these things before you're ready.”

He kissed him gently again.

“That is to say, I'm not frustrated, or getting impatient, or whatever else you might think... It's not your fault, if you need time to work through these things, and it only helps to talk about them if it's on your own terms.”

The last thing he wanted to do was re-traumatize him by pressuring him to talk about anything, or re-process it that way, before he was ready. Their long-term safety might be what was really waiting on this, more than any want for different kinds of intimacy, but Crowley already knew that, and it was already too much pressure.

“Thank you, angel.” he whispered after falling into him for another slow kiss.

~*~

Gradually, Aziraphale's trips downstairs to get new books and to make tea started taking longer and longer. Crowley did not mind, but he was also finding it less pleasant to sleep when he was not there and was finding himself being left alone in Aziraphale's room more and more often with his thoughts. He did not need sleep to begin with, and was now spending his time, not so much sleeping as relaxing and listening, hearing the shuffle of putting away a few books turning into reorganizing a whole shelf or section. He smiled to himself.

He looked around the room to find that, asides from the writing desk and its contents, there really did not seem to be anything personal around, unless it was in the boxes, and they were still surrounded by so much mismatched and haphazardly placed furniture. Certainly, Aziraphale had tried to make it look as welcoming a possible, in an awful hurry, though his priority was clearly the shop beneath them.

It was a cosy clutter and the number of plants and little sun lamps had increased steadily, but he felt that maybe, if this was his home now too, and if he was spending lazy days sleeping and being brought food, it was not an unreasonable liberty to take, to clean up a little. Aziraphale had started cleaning and re arranging in his apartment, after all, and kept trying to insist he should make himself at home, as if not quite yet convinced Crowley really was accepting that he was being wholly invited to treat it as his own living space.

He thought a good place to start would be with the shelves, mismatched though they were, it was not much work to get them stable and arranged in a pleasing way around the room. He did find himself sneezing halfway through, somewhat expressively, and decided that miracling away any dust or mould in the room would also be a fair move, only to find it mostly had been, and very recently, with the exception of the air coming from inside the boxes. After the book cases, and a couple of antique end tables later, the old electric lamps and plants had somewhere to go, as well as every other antique, decorative or forgotten object sitting around in forgotten and half-open boxes.

It had never been dirty, unless you counted the slow build-up of dust over the decades, but it did look much cleaner with aligned edges and shelves, and better symmetry. All that was left after some point, was a number of very new boxes and a number of older boxes full of books and scrolls. Old scrolls sat surprisingly nicely in the old wine-racks and there was plenty enough shelf-space for the books, though he imagined Aziraphale would want to arrange them a certain way himself.

Then, of course, the impulse to test his patience took over and he started mentally rummaging through what he had to see how many there were of what colour, finally just floating them up in the air around him and sliding them around into groupings. A lot of them were antiques, too personal or fragile to be put in the shop at all, and thus did not have much colour variation to work with either. He set these aside carefully, closer to the writing desk. There was a fair mix of books from the last half-century or so that were markedly more colourful, including whatever entirely modern books he had purchased for his own research purposes.

Crowley took all the black and very dark covered books and arranged them into gradients on his side of the bed, then all the white and off-white books and put them in similar gradients on the shelf on the right side of the bed. Then he took the most colourful stack of books and went to the one shelf directly opposite the foot of the bed. There he made an elaborate and visually -stimulating- rainbow gradient of all mismatched shapes and sizes of books.

He had been worried about running a number of books short to really sell it, but the newer boxes of books did contain some varied colours. They also contained very modern fantasy books that were clearly intended for sale, on account of there being entire crates with multiple copies of the same book. He would have to ask Aziraphale what this was about, but he took just one of each regardless. They were something he was willing to entertain reading when Aziraphale was not there to hold him while he was falling asleep, at least.

By the time he heard him come anywhere near the stairs, Crowley was already lounging back in bed against the headboard, pretending to read, but glancing consistently at the visual atrocity he had created at the foot of the bed. You could not possibly be in the bed without getting an eye full of it. He was trying very hard not to grin.

Aziraphale got halfway to the bed, clearly only focused on the tray he was holding and on Crowley, stopping when the bright colours in the corner of his eye drew his attention to the room around him. The new books he ordered for the shop were stacked neatly near the door, along with a couple free-standing shelves, still in their shipping boxes, and everything else was neatly arranged. Aziraphale said nothing. He set the tray down on the old chest that was now sitting at the foot of the bed. He was immediately impressed with how much it looked much more like a bedroom now, rather than something that was half storage attic. This was not what he said.

“You know, dear...” he began calmly, hiding his own smirk fairly well, “It is technically illegal to open someone else's mail, what with it being a government service and all.”

Crowley had not actually made the distinction between unopened parcels and half-opened storage crates, but rolled with it.

“It's like you really do forget that I'm a demon.” he said, still trying his best not to grin, “Supposed to be doing all sorts of illegal and illicit things, aren't I?”

“I left you alone for ten minutes-”

“It was ten _hours_ , angel..” he pointed out, not a complaint as much as begging him for some awareness of time.

Aziraphale seemed genuinely surprised for a moment, glancing up at the window, and then for a clock to confirm this.

“In any event... I don't forget, Crowley.” his mouth tried to twitch into a smile again, “I'm just also quite aware of how charmingly respectful and considerate you generally are.” he said, holding out a teacup and saucer to him, and setting another little plate with a pastry on the table next to him.

“Stop.” he protested idly.

He saw that any books that he could conceivably be picky about -in how they were handed- were tidily set aside in mostly untouched boxes and crates near waiting shelves. Some of the plants with little lamps were now paired evenly on the bedside tables to triple as reading lights. His eyes did not actually wholly stray to the technicoloured elephant in the room.

“What ever did happen to all of my lamps?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley made a point not to look at the one crate he had appropriated to hold a few things closer to the closet.

“Why use oil lamps when you could use modern ones anyway, angel... Better for the environment, I'm sure.”

“And the candles? Didn't happen to find them while tidying, did you?”

Crowley just made a face.

“Really angel, there's light enough now isn't there?”

It was true enough, if you did not mind everything tinted in hues of purple. Aziraphale could not imagine Crowley was unaware of being so transparent, and was not about to drag it out of him. Fire in the shop made him nervous now, rational or not, and he was content to let it lay for the moment.

“Well this was very sweet of you dear.” he said, still pointedly avoiding looking towards the end of the bed.

The books next to the bedside tables were quite cute actually, and they were, or could be, grouped as much as possible by other logic within their existing scheme without interrupting it much at all. It added a bit of personality to the room. He did not have to look at the garish colours behind them to know full well what Crowley had done, but he was not annoyed with it for the reasons Crowley may suspect.

“Sweet, really?” he asked, pursing his lips slightly and adjusting one leg idly in front of him, “Nothing you'd rather rearrange for yourself.” he prompted, shifting that same knee side to side.

“Not a thing.” he insisted, smiling simply, a smirk still threatening to twist out of it.

“Shame we didn't get to this sooner. I'd have arranged it better, before now, myself, but it didn't seem like there was much point now.”

“Already woo me with the shop downstairs, did you?” Crowley suggested idly, stroking one finger up a couple black feathers in a small vase next to the opposite side of the bed.

Aziraphale turned red.

“I'm sure I don't know what you're implying.”

As far as he was aware the shop was something he had put together and maintained entirely for his own benefit and satisfaction. On the other hand, he had not been compulsively cleaning and re-arranging it for the better part of the last year because he himself found it lacking in any way. His focus really always had been on the shop and he had hardly known what to do with the other living areas, on account of having never used them much. Then he had read something about snakes being very sensitive to dust and mould, and he thought of how much time Crowley spent slithering around the shop.

“I would have gotten to all this sooner, but, well, what's another half century or so, given I didn't think I'd be using it. I had thought that by the time we... Well it doesn't seem very productive to finally unpack it all after all this time, just to put it all back in boxes.”

“Why would it have to go back... It's not -that- bad is it?” he asked, looking genuinely stricken for a moment, anxious he had actually done something unwanted.

“Oh, no. No it's... Better than you think, really, but Crowley... You remember what I said before don't you? About moving away somewhere nice?” he asked, taking his hand.

Crowley nodded, golden eyes now wide and giving him his full attention.

“I was thinking perhaps somewhere a little south. Perhaps with enough room for a proper garden? Nothing too fancy of course, but something comfortable and out of the way... Quiet... Perhaps even somewhere we could have ducks, if we wanted.” he paused, taking a deep breath.

“And I know we can't _really_ \- Or shouldn't... But the neighbours would have children, and that would be nice, wouldn't it? Wouldn't it be nice to have somewhere that they could play? Somewhere safe. Somewhere where with fields to run in, and trees to sit under... Something that's _ours_.”

Crowley was holding his breath to listen to him paint this picture of domestic bliss. He remembered suggesting they become godparents -of a sort- together, hoping he would at least agree, only to find his heart melting when Aziraphale had lit up at the suggestion. The years that had followed had been complicated. Of course he would never trade those years raising Warlock together, not for anything, but they had never been themselves, not really. It had been a grand performance of necessity, a manipulation out of desperation. It had hurt, pretending at a family he could so easily want, all while so aware of why they were doing it and where it could very well lead. Now Aziraphale was betraying how he had thought of the possibility of trying to build some kind of family together, just for themselves; that he had at least stray thoughts of raising children together.

Crowley was tearfully nodding but also had that look like he wanted to kiss him again, so he set their tea aside to make room. Then he was kissing him like he did not know what to do with himself. Running his hands up his back in an attempt to hold him closer only resulted in a handful of feathers as Crowley's wings inserted themselves into the situation. He seemed caught off guard by it himself, and possibly overwhelmed in general, but whatever resolution he came to about it all obviously involved ignoring everything else to kiss him more, holding his face in both hands and now definitively in his lap.

Crowley, despite seemingly moved to kiss him passionately, also seemed intent on taking his time savouring the progression between the warmth of skin brushing on dry and sensitive skin, and massaging heat that ended in light nips that asked him to stay close. They had been spending long and lazy days kissing each other for weeks and he still had not pressed for more. That was, until brushing fingertips gently up into his wings resulted in teeth closing, not so lightly, on his lip. Next Aziraphale felt a slick tongue trace up across his lips in a delicate little flick, though Crowley immediately pulled away and covered his mouth with his hand, eyes wide.

“Are you alright?” Aziraphale asked him, taking his chin.

In response, he melted into his hand, or tried to hide in it, nodding subtly while he was doing it.

“Ssorry.”

Apologetic anxiety started to give way to open curiosity, as it became clear he was very much not offended.

“Don't be sorry.” he said softly, “Not too fast for _you_ this time?” he asked, a little flippantly, resting their foreheads together.

“Angel.” he complained, almost laughing, “That'ss not it.” he said, but then did not seem able to explain what it _was_.

Aziraphale sighed, taking a long moment to pointedly not look over his shoulder.

“Crowley, sweetheart...” he asked with a curious tilt, “When you address me in your thoughts...” he started to reframe the question immediately because he was already blushing, “You call me 'angel' don't you?” he paused very briefly.

Crowley did not quite respond, not more than his voice clicking uselessly and blush deepening.

“I'm _your_ angel, aren't I?” he asked, as if that was still some preamble to the point he was making, and somehow not a profound confession itself.

Crowley nodded subtly. He did not know how someone who usually seemed so soft and shy could unabashedly say some of these things to him, could speak of things that were such difficult confessions of desire and attachment like they were a foregone conclusion, tilting him gently this way or that to look him in the eyes to do it, no less. It was always so gentle, usually absolutely relenting, as if the slightest hint of resistance would stop him, an offer, a request without words, but also certain, firm in intent; emotionally bold. Crowley was already suffering some hopeful and anxious anticipation of him getting to whatever point he was trying to make.

Aziraphale smiled, pleased with this answer, though it was clear he already knew. He kissed his forehead and stroked his cheek.

“Then, dear boy, I'd like you to repeat after me.” he requested, smiling sweetly into his hair.

Crowley's mouth and throat instantly went dry. Aziraphale was waiting for his acknowledgement, so he nodded tentatively.

“My angel loves me...” he began, against his hairline, waiting.

Eventually, when no reply came, he pulled back and looked at him again. Crowley was very red.

“Please, entertain me, won't you?” he asked, so earnestly he could not help but comply.

“M- my angel loves me.” he managed to whisper, feeling ridiculous, pressed forehead to forehead so he did not have to look in is eyes while he said it.

The words, being made to say them himself, made his skin feel hot and tingly.

“My angel _enjoys_ kissing me.” he prompted next, stroking his hair and pulling him closer.

His breath and words were too warm and too lovely to be so close to his ear and sweeping over his neck like that. It made nerves spark with sensation down his spine to settle somewhere curling tightly in the skin of his lower back.

“ _Aziraphale_.” he whined, turning in against his shoulder.

“Please?”

“My angel enjoyss kisssing me.” came his shaky and soft reply, now decidedly red.

“My angel thinks I'm charming.” he lead him onward.

Again he tried to comply, feeling completely absurd and far too warm, his voice shrinking progressively.

“My angel thhinkss I'm... chharming.” he muttered with a distinct pout, ever more red.

“Because I am.” Aziraphale finished, finally relenting because he was starting to shake a little.

“Because I- M.” his voice faltered, too quiet, before he cleared his throat, “Because he's a bastard set on discorporating me with these embarrassing games.” he complained loudly into his chest, red from top to bottom.

He felt the light shake of Aziraphale's amusement before he folded back to concern.

“Oh darling... I'm sorry. If that was too much, really I am...” he said, relieved when Crowley was easy to coax back up into looking at him again.

He was very red, and his eyes were all golden, as they has been since he first kissed him, but the shaking had stopped almost the moment it started.

“You did very good though.” he cooed, prompting him to melt uselessly back into hiding against his chest.

“ _Shut up_.” was probably what he heard, muffled against his clothes.

Crowley absolutely could not stand games that played with his nerves like this. The heat in his skin was becoming a recurrent theme, and his wings only felt right when they were out, and being touched. These demonstrative acts of affection that Aziraphale was quickly slipping into were doing things to him he did not have the language to describe or explain.

“You don't really think it bothers me do you?” he asked, cupping his cheek, “Such a lovely tongue?”

As his thumb brushed forward Crowley's mind flooded itself with memories of that dream and his throat made a week sound. He shook his head, despite that he only half remembered what he was responding to.

“Well then.” he said, as if coming to a conclusion, taking his face in both hands and running a thumb under his bottom lip until he tipped up to meet him.

This time Aziraphale licked gently at him, first his bottom lip, holding it gently in place between his teeth, then along his top lip where it seemed the nerves were even more sensitive. Crowley's wings fluttered as if he was seeking balance, but he kissed him back. It was tentative at first but before long his tongue slipped suggestively around his and, just for a moment, he relaxed. It seemed to have solved most of the excessive nipping, at least.

Very quickly Aziraphale noticed his breathing shortening and heard his voice do something strained that absolutely indicated it was quickly becoming too much, and pulled back slowly. The golden eyes in front of him were speaking volumes, his wings ruffled themselves again as he licked his lip.

Crowley almost touched his own lips after a moment, a curious gesture, but stopping short as if it was too sensitive.

“Wasn't that nice?” he offered him a gentle smile, stroking his cheek.

Crowley nodded.

Kisses were very nice. These kisses in particular were more than he thought kisses could be, something unto themselves. They were far too suggestive and made all of his nerves ache for soothing touches. It felt like it would be far too easy to get lost in. All he wanted to do was go back to kissing him, but there was only so much of this his nerves could take. He wanted Aziraphale's hands buried in his feathers, but he knew he would not be able to bear it. At least Aziraphale had the decency to be blushing almost as much as he felt like he was.

He assumed his hormones were on a hair trigger because of the countless years of repressing everything he felt, combined with suddenly being able to express some of it and not being sure where the new lines should be drawn, but he wished it would calm down a little. He wanted to enjoy this, take it slowly enough that they were both comfortable, sure, but also just to savour it, as he was sure Aziraphale would want to do as well. There were still conversations they should have before it went further than kisses, or -if he was perfectly honest- before kisses like these got too carried away.

It was embarrassing, feeling so sensitive, so reactive. His own wings twitched behind him, trying to correct for the feeling of falling and wanting to be stroked. He was not sure how to feel that Aziraphale did not seem to be struggling with the same disobedience from his own wings. Still, it was nice, resting forehead to forehead and trading tender kisses that did not escalate as much as vary curiously.

Aziraphale felt him scratch, lightly, in an impulsive and curious gesture, at the fabric of his shirt under where his wings should be and arched away from it, breaking away from the kisses and drawing a sharp breath.

“Crowley, darling, there's no room.” he almost whined, sparing a glance to the vase on the bedside table.

“Oh?” Crowley asked with a curious head-tilt.

He had not been wholly aware of what his hands were doing, but seeing how pink Aziraphale was and knowing he was talking about his wings made him think he was underestimating how mutual some of this experience was, else Aziraphale just thought it was what he wanted.

“Your wings too, angel?” he asked softly, sitting back, and getting a shy nod in response.

He quickly shifted back on the bed to give him space, coaxing him forward. Aziraphale was hesitant to oblige, not sure if it was a good idea to put Crowley in a position that remotely resembled being caged in or pinned, but he followed the tugging at his shirt slowly, careful not to put his weight directly on his legs, or accidentally pin the dark wings that were blocking most of the mattress. He barely managed to adjust for the fabric of his clothes to prevent them from tearing, as his wings seemed to burst into corporeal space the moment they caught a whiff of the impulse to let them.

Raising his eyes to meet his was not met with the smile or gentle teasing he expected, instead Crowley's eyes were still watching them unfold into the space. He had been sitting but was quickly letting himself melt back onto the duvet, quiet and watching. His pupils were flickering between too open and too closed, but this did not seem like panic. He seemed completely relaxed and was still absently tugging him forward. It seemed almost trance-like, the way he was watching them move in the light.

“Crowley?” he asked softly, to no response.

“Crowley darling?” he tried more firmly.

“Mm?” he vaguely acknowledged, taking a moment for his eyes to settle back on him.

“Are you alright?” he asked, holding very still.

Crowley nodded subtly, then blinked as if to clear sleep away, before seeming to get lost in watching them again. Aziraphale swayed them subtly to watch his eyes follow them, still tugging at his shirt. He leaned forward to support himself off of him and cupped his cheek. He shivered as delicate fingers coaxed gently up into the feathers at the base of his wings. He stayed on his knees but leaned down close enough to kiss him once tenderly. Almost instantly a tail wrapped tightly up his thigh, but Crowley had not seemed to notice. He could not help but smile, hoping he did not seem too amused for his liking.

“Darling...” he sighed, pulling back, as close to sitting on his heels as he could without squeezing his tail.

Crowley followed him enough to be resting on his elbows before seeming to come back to himself a bit more. Now the tail let him go and squirmed back out of the way, leaving Crowley supported on wings, hands and the back of his tail, now red enough that he almost matched his belly scales.

He opened his mouth briefly but no sound really came out.

“Oh, sweetheart...” he cooed as Crowley tried to wiggle back to give him more space, or to hide his tail, “Tails aren't very good for locomotion are they?”

Crowley shook his head, now covering his face in one hand.

His silk buttoned shirt covered him well enough, but Aziraphale still offered him a blanket. If he flipped over to hide his belly and to have some better ability to move around, it would leave him stuck on his stomach, and planting face-first into his lap. At least this compulsive change in shape went all the way past his hips, if it was going to rob him of pants.

“I'm sorry.” he continued softly, “That was too much, wasn't it?” he offered, wrapping the blanket around him.

Crowley made a pained sound. He did not want it to be too much. He remembered quite acutely that it felt very warm and nice and that he wanted him to keep kissing him, wanted to keep watching his wings dance over him. Now Aziraphale was probably worried he had done something wrong.

“Not really... Not, um...”

He realized that his self-conscious squirming might look like he was trying to get away and reminded himself that Aziraphale was not offended by this reaction. He did not want him to think he was scaring him or that he actually wanted anything other than to be held right now. He tried to wiggle forward instead, and found he had better luck pushing off of the bedding than trying to slither normally on his back.

Crowley paused, looking like a bit like a land-bound mermaid very annoyed with their tail. He was figuring out how to move like this, but Aziraphale imagined the smoothness of his scales did not help.

“Not your fault, angel...” he sighed, at himself, “It's just all...” he searched for the right word, trying to figure out how to sit comfortably and free his hands.

“Sensitive?” Aziraphale supplied, “Too much all at once?” he suggested, avoiding the word 'fast' this time.

Crowley had the affect of pouting, more at his tail than anything, but conceded with a distracted nod.

“Can I hold you?” he asked, offering to take him in his arms again.

“Yes.” Crowley sighed, not reluctant, as much as exasperated with himself.

At least this reaction seemed to supersede anything more embarrassing. Unfortunately, not much more of his abdomen had followed his tail this time, not any more than last time, so it was still hard to move. Being scooped up into Aziraphale's lap solved that problem for the moment. Now their wings formed a fort around them and he could trail his fingers up into soft hair.

“Well, at least we'll know if you're feeling too overwhelmed?” he suggested, “You're certain I didn't scare you?”

“Angel.” he complained, “Of course not.” he admonished gently, drawing him closer, upper arms sliding further over his shoulders.

Crowley did not know what that reaction was exactly, but it certainly was not unpleasant or scary, and it seemed common to both of them that their wings wanted to be involved in whatever they were doing. Aziraphale's wings puffed up like a bird in the cold and wiggled as if looking for the right way to sit, every time he touched them now. He ran one hand down from the back of his neck to tease at a feather, testing it, watching them puff apart and settle again.

“You like when I touch your wings, angel?” he asked against the side of his neck, knowing the answer.

Aziraphale shivered again and nodded. Then he stroked his hands up his back to trail into his feathers again and Crowley slumped forward making a strangled sound and giving up his odd angling, after his wings, to wrap tightly around him. Stroking gentle repeating patterns down the tiny feathers prompted soft pleased sounds for a moment until he squirmed.

“Still too much?” he asked.

Crowley's wings rustled in response to him stopping, but he also nodded.

“Lets have a nice nap then... Maybe get something to eat later?”

Another nod.

Aziraphale was pretty certain he was already falling asleep before he had even finished manoeuvring them into laying back down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first December update!, hopefully of a few. I want to focus on writing, but there's lots of other stuff I have to get done too. Unfortunately I think it would take at least a few more chapters to get around to something x-mas themed, and I don't know how much time I'll have exactly. 
> 
> I always know what I want to put in these notes until I'm writing them :/


	12. Angels in your gears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I suppose the warning for this one is one very flustered and embarrassed Crowley. I'll try to put these warnings at the end notes if ever they become actual spoilers.
> 
> My house has been flooding, the heat had been out, and now I'm sick and self-quarantined. IDK what I have but my roommate works in fast food and isn't being given any time off... I've been under stupid amounts of stress and dealing with fallout from my own trauma, and I keep having to re-arrange everything I own, and just finished being in a huge disagreement with my roommates... So there's that. It's been a lot, and I'm a little fever-y right now, but I wanted to write this chapter and get it up. I don't like that it's take so long to update. There's so much I want to write, so many plot points to get to and so many great things to come and I am actually very excited, just really busy. 
> 
> You might not have expected me to update again, but I hope this comes as a pleasant surprise while we're mostly all stuck inside.

~*~

It was nice, beyond nice really, just getting to fold back into warmth, comfort and soft touches, over and over again until he lost sense of time and even -occasionally- place. Sometimes still being on Aziraphale's bed came as a surprise, and he wondered why he had thought, a moment ago in some sleepy haze, that they had gone anywhere else, like to the flat or the couch, Rome perhaps. None of that really mattered though. What mattered was that they had time, space to breathe for a moment. What mattered was that Aziraphale seemed endlessly -pleased- to keep providing him whatever warmth and affection he would lean into.

The first time Crowley seemed to show signs of earnest consciousness it was to make barely audible, desperate and soft sounds, clearly coming out of a dream or still caught in one. Aziraphale wondered if he should let it be, until he started to seem distressed and was turning too red.

“Crowley, love, are you okay?” he asked gently, lifting him sightly.

His eyes finally focused as if fully awake, long enough to turn very red and mumble something about a dream and curl in against his hip to go back to sleep, tail and all. It did take far longer that time, but his legs did eventually make a reappearance, all wrapped up in black satin and hooked over his, whenever they could find their way there without too much trouble. Occasionally, he even clung to him as if thinking they were still on the couch and he would fall if he did not hold him close enough. It almost made it seem unnecessary to have two sides of the bed at all, except now, as their wings draped over the whole of it. Sometimes he felt like he was being encased in dark feathers, sometimes shielded, and not so occasionally blanketed in them.

“G'morning, angel.” he mumbled at some point that was definitely anything but morning.

“Good m-morning, darling.” Aziraphale entertained him, smiling.

“Have any pleasant dreams?” he asked, not dropping the smile.

Crowley just shook his head, with a small shrugging motion, as if to refute that he was being asked that, rather than to deny it, ignoring the heat in his own face, thankful Aziraphale had the sense, or mercy, to wake him before it went too far. He glanced over at the pastry on the bedside table and warmed it with a spare thought before taking a bite. It was not anything much, just the vague impression of gentle touches and large white wings moving over him, and it would absolutely not be worth trying to explain.

~*~

The next time Aziraphale left and came back, he noticed the books on his end table had been switched out. No longer were they the most modern books on psychology he had managed to source, instead those could be glimpsed in the shelves and copies of the new stories he had bought sat on his bedside table in their place. Crowley appeared to be sleeping again, though either lightly or an act entirely. Of course, he had to eventually notice what he was reading.

Of course there was only so long he could overlook the general themes of all the newest additions to his personal collection, and no real way he could fail to immediately see why. It was one of the first ways Aziraphale tended to show dedication to anyone or anything, to read about things relevant to their potential needs, rather than his own focus of the moment. Crowley had only seen him do this with very limited things. First it was humans and morality or philosophy in a general sense, then -as time wore on- plants, which Crowley kept leaving with him, then a sharp nosedive into child rearing, and now finally, it was anything that might apply to providing for him, physically, mentally or emotionally.

It did suddenly provide a sobering context to all the times Crowley had felt a ghost of protective flames in his dreams. He thought, or perhaps hoped, he had been inventing it in his sleep. The sentiment was more than sweet -he could never get enough of demonstrations and satellite projections of love that he could sense and observe- but he did not want him hurting or upset on his behalf. Especially not now, not when they could finally curl up together for a momentary reprieve. He chanced a glance up to see him sighing at the books on the table and then looking him over, seemingly trying to decide whether to speak.

“Come back to bed?” he mumbled, either a question or a request.

Aziraphale almost wanted to suggest they get up and do something, but the sight of him there, wings still draped open and puffing up slightly made him think of righting some of his feathers instead. He scooped one wing out of the way to sit back down and it settled expectantly on his lap.

“Darling, we can't stay in bed forever.” he said, picking out a feather to start with.

Crowley wanted to argue there was some probability that they could, if it really came down to it, with a clever use of miracles and barring the next potential war, especially if he kept touching his wings like that.

It was slowly becoming normal, natural that they would groom each others wings, and it was certainly nicer this way, a comfort he was slowly getting used to, at least enough that we was not a humming ball of nerves and poorly defined anxieties the entire time. At first he thought there was something Aziraphale wanted to ask him, but minutes dragged on and the silence only threatened breaking, giving him a general sense of concern in the subtle noises and his shifting and breathing.

“What is it, angel?”

Aziraphale sat back and Crowley glanced behind him to watch him toy with another shed feather, still pointedly ignoring the rainbow behind them.

Aziraphale was not sure how to define his growing anxiety exactly, at least not in ways that would not upset him. They had been spending months quietly decompressing together, stretching out and indulging in all sorts of things they never usually allowed themselves, with a special emphasis on Crowley getting to be soft and cared for, for a change, and he had wanted to blame any changes he was observing on that. He wanted to let go of any anxieties he had about being unhealthy for him in some sense, because it seemed obvious to both of them to be unfounded and that Crowley wanted this, but he could not -at this point- quite see past all the changes he had been observing.

In public Crowley was the same as ever, but in private he was both opening up and becoming subdued in ways he was not used to. True, in the past, Crowley had disappeared for long periods of time, often to take prolonged rests, and he had merely not been witness to this, and he thought it had to be healthier for him to be addressing all of these things with someone he felt safe with, as he was ready, but the end result was seeing him under the constant stress of these changes, seemingly constantly in some anxious state between moments where it could turn to relief or catharsis, and he could not help but notice other subtle things.

“Well you... um. Crowley, dear, how much do you usually shed feathers?” he asked, trying to be delicate and keep from sounding too worried.

They had both been shedding more than usual, because -generally speaking- they might shed a feather a year or so, by his reckoning, but Crowley's wings in particular were feeding constant doubt past everything he was telling himself to rationalize how it probably made sense and was somehow temporary.

“Er, one or two... But, you know, maybe I've been missing some...” he tried to brush it off.

“Missing some?”

“Yeah, when I uh, do them myself, maybe I haven't really been getting them all?”

Aziraphale almost said something, then sighed and tucked another three feathers into the vase on his side of the bed. Maybe once the evidence built up, Crowley would have a hard time protesting if there was a problem. Flight feathers shed from time to time, it happened, but the fact that the last one had not fully grown back in yet before this one came out too was worrying him. The vase of his own feathers looked cloud-like and stout by comparison, lacking any long feathers all together and a little less stuffed.

“And you've been looking a little... Peaky.”

“Peaky?”

“And well, it has been a lot of stress, hasn't it? Change is stress, even if it's good, or good in the end, there have been so many changes lately, with the world, and well, with us, and well you've been um...”

He really was not sure how to inoffensively put it into words that he had been turning red and distressed to the point of shaking at least once a week on average.

“Maybe it's just that I'm used to it taking us hundreds of years to work things through, and perhaps that was worse and more stressful, and entirely my fault, and maybe it's time for all of this and maybe we're both sick of holding back and waiting for things to get better _someday_... But darling, are you sure you don't need a bit more time? To process, to be sure of things, to figure stuff out...”

“Aziraphale, I'm fine...” he said, but he could see those words did not carry much meaning at all any more.

'Fine' might have come to mean that whatever was wrong was something he was not going to make an issue of yet.

“Angel...” he said, much more quietly, “I mean it this time. I'm not just-”

“Not just saving my feelings? Keeping me from worrying? Crowley you-”

“I know.” he interrupted back, “I know, angel, I know I-”.

“It's my fault, I know it is, that you do that so much-” he said, before shushing his protests, “Don't, Don't try to deny it. My point is that I don't blame -you- for it, but you can't, darling, you can't do that any more, keep things to yourself to save my feelings, to protect me or to keep me content. Not any more, not now, not if we're going to...” he trailed off with a sigh, not sure how to define what they were doing in explicit terms just then.

“It's been too long that I've abided by this, this being so much more one-sided than it should be. I've had so many tidy excuses for it... You can argue I wasn't ready or that it was too dangerous, or that I hadn't asked for this, or a hundred other things, and I don't even know if you'd be _wrong_ exactly, but whatever reasons or excuses there were, it just can't work like that any more, dear.”

“We've had -thousands- of years together, darling, thousands... There really is no excuse, to treat each other less than perfectly fairly, kindly. It's not fair... You having to take on the weight of everything... You not having your needs met, you always feeling you have to take the blame if we fight or abide by... Things.”

“Angel...” he sighed softly, turning over and sitting up to hold him, in part because he seemed to be getting progressively closer to tears.

“It's not all your fault, not _really_ , that it was in me to start... I let it happen too. I guess I just thought-” he hit a mental wall, “Doesn't matter what I thought, the point is, I know... Guess you, er, don't quite trust me when I say nothing is wrong...” he trailed off.

Aziraphale was shaking his head already. Something in him told him he should not even be allowing Crowley to take any blame for this in particular, that something he was currently failing to define just was not quite right about that, but he also did not want to invalidate how he saw it or turn this into an argument too.

“No, no, that's... fair. You're right I...” Cowley cut off his protests. “Can't blame you, can I?” he said, resting their foreheads together and stroking his cheek.

“I just want to know if you're actually alright, dear.” Aziraphale said, nuzzling back.

“I'll- We'll work on it.” Crowley corrected himself, kissing his forehead.

Aziraphale offered him a small smile and turned to kiss his hand briefly.

“When you say you're 'fine' what do you mean, in this context?” he asked after a moment.

Crowley made a sort of uneasy sound.

“I mean, I feel alright, nothing stands out as bad, er, or wrong?” he shrugged.

“Nothing out of the _usual_.” Aziraphale added with significance.

He thought it might also be in part that Crowley lacked some of the moment by moment proprioception required to know how to answer a question like that.

“How are you feeling right now... _What_ are you feeling, thinking? Not just -right- now, but lately...”

A string of half forgotten syllables later he finally spoke.

“Just... That this shouldn't be so hard, especially...” he said, before the vague impulse to specify -that he meant for himself in particular- faded in the wake of his uncertainty about how to put the essence of his own struggle in a way that would not just have the entire issue slowly and mercilessly dragged out of him.

“Objectively speaking, it -aught- to be exactly as hard as it _is_ for us, darling.” Aziraphale coaxed at him when he started to look like he was folding into himself again.

It was hard to break away into open distress or lament when his forehead felt magnetically attracted to Aziraphale's. He was right, there was no objective standard for how this should be, it just felt like it was too much, knowing it would probably be something that seemed so small in retrospect, once they had addressed it.

Aziraphale was being so careful and gentle with him, and it was an odd kind of counterpoint to something he had not thought to define. Slowly it was occurring to him just how much he really was used to being the attentive and considerate one, and just how much Aziraphale usually was comfortable with all the attention -from him, if never from anyone else- but not with this, or in this circumstance, apparently.

He thought, perhaps, that was the source of some of his own discomfort. Whether or not it was actually unfair, he was unused to all of the focus being on how he was processing things, and it simultaneously did not feel right that _none_ of their focus seemed to be on how Aziraphale was experiencing all of this, emotionally or otherwise. Perhaps, in private and with this, they needed this trading of roles in some ways, but they were hardly practised at it yet, and he thought it possible they had swung just slightly too far out of their established comfort zones.

“If I take a few days, tend my plants, process or whatever... Would that make you feel better?” Crowley asked, after long moments between forehead kisses.

“Perhaps... What would make -you- feel better though, dear?” he tried to refocus, “Is there anything that might help, for now? With all of-” he gestured as much as he could from their position sunken into the mattress and let himself trail off once Crowley's general state had been indicated in a gentle, implied sort of way.

“I think, you've been very attentive to what I might want or need for some time now, angel... Maybe, less focus on me?” he asked, kissing his fingers.

Aziraphale did a double-take, genuinely wondering what he might be implying for someone so reluctant to take time to themselves.

“I've been overdoing it? Being too attentive, er, demanding?” he asked, and the moment he did he seemed far more certain that really was the issue.

“No, no, not what I'm getting at.” he kissed another couple fingers trying to put into words the point he was trying to make.

“This is all new for you too isn't it? Not something you really thought about wanting before?” he tried to lead him in the general direction of his own questions.

“Well, more or less.” he conceded, though the way he seemed to lose focus slightly at the kisses on his fingers helped put some part of his concerns to rest in the moment.

“So, point is, angel, maybe -I'd- like to know what _you'd_ enjoy, like to focus on you for a bit.”

“On me? Oh I couldn't _ask_...” he replied, so very sweetly automatically, even before he could define what he could not ask for.

Crowley just raised one eyebrow as if to say “You see what the problem is?”.

Neither of them were quite comfortable asking for intimacies, both, Crowley figured, out of some fear of creating, or having created, a sense of obligation. What he had less grasp of was why Aziraphale seemed to struggle with the idea that it was something they were both suffering.

“Then don't ask...” he said, then, at the concerned look he was getting, “I mean, don't ask me -for- things, just _tell_ me what you _enjoy_ , and let me make my own damned choices.”

These were harsh words for someone still tenderly kissing over the back of his hands and looking at him with such big earnest eyes. Aziraphale could hardly be riled by this, not even enough for a cool look.

Crowley finally kissed over his wrist to watch a subtle shiver run through him. Certainly, he was becoming assured, slowly, that he was enjoying this particular brand of attention from him, for his own reasons, but he did not want to test the extent and limits, or the particular flavour of that, and be off the mark.

“Well I, oh, I don't know...”

If he was forced to bet, he would put money on the idea he had somehow put more thought into this kind of thing, indirectly, than Crowley had, at least, as to the kinds of things that might be nice, with some abstract idea of a partner, who was not _not-_ Crowley. That said, it was not as though he had come to idealize certain activities, or identify any particular affinity for anything in particular; mostly. The kisses on his hand were pleasant.

“This is nice... I like looking at you, holding you, knowing you're here, and safe and... And I like...” he trailed off, freeing one hand to stroke his hair, and offering him the other, unsure if anything else he could think of was worth stating out loud for the impact it might have.

“There's lots of things I -could- like, darling... And you're always doing things because I'd enjoy them and it's nice, like this, being able to do things just to please you.” he said, nuzzling into the side of his neck against the pillow.

Crowley's voice made a soft sound that implied a much harsher impact, either because of the implication or where the failing machine of his mind instinctively tried to run with it.

Truth be told Aziraphale had not noticed just how much focus he gave to sound, even in all his long years, even knowing his affinity for language and love of music, until he realized just how much he enjoyed hearing the sounds Crowley made in contexts like these. Crowley was always metaphorically whispering in his ear, but now, just occasionally, it was almost literal, and that toyed with his nerves in surprising ways. He did not know how he could express or explain that his favourite thing so far was doing things that made Crowley make expressive sounds without making him shy about it, or being accused of finding excuses to twist the focus back off of himself. He thought it was likely to become apparent on its own in due time.

Of course, Aziraphale could not be any more obvious, even now every sound that leaked out against his control was met with a pleased little hum. The more Crowley tried not to make noises, the breathier they came out and the more Aziraphale seemed to want to pursue whatever had caused them. This was the dynamic that had developed already over face kisses and relatively tame caresses. I was one of those things Crowley decidedly did not think about, one of those thing he packed away for later, after they had unpacked other things.

Even now, as Aziraphale barely brushed near the side of his throat, whatever breathy sound he made seemed to encourage this indulgent nuzzling and made him think twice about this tangent of questions, for the moment. It was too comfortable, too familiar now, the heat of their bodies laying against each other, tangled in soft or crisp bedding, the shift of contrasting fabric slipping this way or that lazy and so very comfortably warm. Just occasionally he really wanted to shift flannel or satin out of the way and feel the press of skin to skin, but that was for later too.

“Angel, angel, angel...” he started mumbling, in part a half-hearted attempt to disrupt this, but mostly to address something else, “You're always so sweet to me.” he said, trying to go back to kissing his hand.

Aziraphale did not think he was the one who should be accused of uncommon sweetness, in terms of their relationship.

“Not as sweet as I could be.” he sighed, still too close to his throat.

“No, no, I really mean that... Listen to me...” Crowley said, making some attempt to raise himself a little, “Ever since the beginning, every time its all gotten to be too much, too hard, too cold, too loud, too anything, any time I've needed to...” he struggled for a moment to define what he was often left seeking, “Get away, find... Comfort, warmth, companionship... Any time I've needed someone to be kind and soft, and gentle...” he broke off kissing his fingers again, then his palm, “It's always been you, no one else has ever... No one else -would- ever...” he paused again, trying to collect his thoughts and straying down his wrist more than he had intended.

“You've always been so kind to me, angel.” he said, guiding his hand against his cheek, letting it run into his hair, “Any time I've needed you-”.

“Almost any time.” he was cut off.

“Angel.” he admonished quietly.

“Don't do that... Don't... Do you -really- think anyone could be expected to do anything more? Make themselves available even more... You know it's not possible, and it's not your fault it's like this... Can't blame yourself can you? That no one else can be bothered, to be so kind, to be decent, to a demon... Not fair, is it? To expect you to make up for the whole of them, everyone else, all the time? Other people, they have entire bloody...” he gestured, “Support structures, what have you... It's not fair to expect everything all from one person all the time, and it's not your fault I don't really have anyone else.”

Never mind that almost any time he tried to broaden his social circle, he only ended up picking out people who turned out to be his angel anyway.

“Well, I suppose not.” Aziraphale conceded, sounding slightly too taken with something to argue anyway.

He supposed this might be another reason for those long naps, offloading a need for reprieve onto the wings of dreams. Still, he wanted to make a habit of making himself available more consistently, and of being present with him during these long rests. They had come a long way, Crowley admitting to wanting and needing things like softness and kindness.

“To think, the most notorious demon would actually be the most forgiving and understanding being I have ever encountered in all of God's creation...” Aziraphale mused, not entirely to himself.

Crowley seemed to run out of arguments and questions for the moment, skin instantly heating up, and getting caught up gazing back at him, distracted only by him rolling over slightly closer to stretch out his wings. It was nice having them out so often, less so when they ended up folded too tightly against the mattress for too long.

“You like these?” Aziraphale asked softly, watching as he melted into a kind of complacency.

Crowley could not even admit to himself just how often his less than conscious mind strayed to thoughts and vivid meanderings involving these wings swaying over him, let alone find the words to help Aziraphale understand everything it evoked. It felt quite nearly instinctive, to coax him into rolling further on top of him. It felt warm and secure and so very good to be pinned gently into so much soft bedding.

'Crowley? Dear, are you alright?” he asked softly.

This time he got a nod, nothing verbal, still, but he did not seem lost the way he had before.

Crowley sighed, failing to mask something that sounded akin to pain and desire. Watching his wings sway in the light was never supposed to be something suggestive. He did not even know how he had let that happen. He had been so careful about all of this. Denial, he supposed, could be a double edged sword that way.

Then he thought, as he ran his fingers up into the hot and silky little feathers where they met his side, there might be something else to this. As he watched Aziraphale's eyelids droop and his head tilt with a small shiver, he thought maybe there was something here they shared, as instinctive and compelling as he felt it himself. The base of his wings seemed so delightfully pink, just at his sides where the downy feathers thinned and pressed into soft locks, wavy from heat and humidity against his skin. It made him think of his whole wings being pink, brought to mind something he was too fuzzy to quite recall at the moment.

“Oh, that's um...” Aziraphale began to say at what his fingers were doing, “Quite nice...” he said, turning red.

If he had meant for anything, Crowley had meant to pull him into a secure hug, letting him be the one to be cuddled close to his chest this time. He had done a poor job of finding a balance between that and wanting to massage his fingers though his feathers, and now he was pinned, and it was lovely.

Aziraphale let himself down to his elbows so he could stroke his hair, then his cheek, then his neck, and thus it became just too natural of a thing to be kissing him again. It felt so good and he immediately found himself fighting not to get lost in it. It was better not to let this get carried away, not just yet, but at every sign of apparent enjoyment or enthusiasm from Aziraphale, he kept allowing himself just one more kiss.

Aziraphale could take it as a sign of nervousness that he seemed to be trying to keep their kisses measured, almost interrupting any rhythm they could fall into, but it was definitely Crowley subtly pulling him in for more and melting enthusiastically back into it, moment after moment, and every time he even looked like he was going to start asking if this was okay, he was interrupted with more kisses. He had not meant for them to fall into this any more than Crowley had, but he seemed to be enjoying it so much, and he could not scrape together a reason not to indulge him a little longer; not until Crowley suddenly felt far too hot and shaky, despite that he was still holding him close.

Crowley only let his guard down briefly, lulled into just enjoying this without worry, just for a moment or two, when he was gripped by an extreme and immediate awareness of why this was such a bad idea. Gentle massaging kisses turned slowly into teasing his lips, soothing strokes turned into light coaxing touches and it was quite suddenly overstimulating, a precarious edge rushing up to meet him when he thought it was safely in the distance.

He could feel his voice wanting to pinch and his skin starting to come too alive. He could feel himself starting to shake and wanting to grind forward, and that would not do at all because with Aziraphale between his legs he could not change shape, and if he could not change shape he could not avoid friction, and friction -despite how it felt- was _not_ something he wanted at the moment.

He ignored the whimpering sound his own throat made as he forced himself to pull away and he hoped Aziraphale would politely do the same. His body screamed for just a few more moments to have its fill, promising him that if he let it carry on a bit more it would feel _so_ _good_ , but that was exactly what he was trying to avoid. He felt dizzy.

“Fhhhhhuck, um, flamingoes... That's what... Um.” he mumbled, his brain scrambling back to his last more concrete thoughts, taking deep breaths and turning progressively redder as how ridiculous he felt fully set in.

Aziraphale looked concerned, too much for his liking, as he carefully lifted his weight back off of him, watching for any signs of distress, until he set that aside at the mention of the birds.

“I'm sorry, dear?” he asked, stroking his cheek gently.

“Er, flamingoes, are the uh, birds, with the feathers, that eh, turn pink... When they eat enough...” he said, slowly coming to realize he had never voiced this line of thinking to begin with and that there was probably a good reason for it, “Is it shrimp? Must be something _like_ shrimp...” he went on, distracted by trying to remember, even enough to lift an embarrassed and shaky hand back off of his face.

Aziraphale's eyes, despite whatever the corners of his mouth were saying to the contrary, did not look impressed.

Crowley's tail had reappeared the moment it was able to do so, and now he seemed to be practically squirming under his gaze, eyes begging him to entertain him, so he did not have the heart to be too offended at whatever line of conversation his affection drunk mind managed to turn out as a distraction from whatever state he was in. He would be more worried that he seemed nervous suddenly, but he also seemed to be fighting off pleasant chills and the eyelids he often forgot he had kept drooping expressively when he touched him.

“What about them, darling?” he asked, stroking his hair.

Crowley's brain had, at the thought of pink wings, gone on to suggest entire lines of reasoning that ended with questions he did not want to ask. If flamingoes were naturally white, and they got their pigmentation seasonally from the crustaceans they ate, and if feather colour deriving from food was common _enough_ to birds, he assumed, or presumably any animal with feathers, including -potentially- human bodies in some rare cases, then he thought it was a reasonable curiosity to have, just how much shrimp someone their size would have to eat, and over what span of time, to test his theory. He tried and failed to keep himself from stroking at his wings. He did not think Aziraphale would let him away with a question like that, and he thought it a good idea to avoid taking him anywhere that served too much seafood until this moment faded from memory.

“Nothing.” he said, pouting and shaking his head conspicuously, still unable to look away from the white feathers and pinker than usual skin in front of him.

He had to talk to him soon, about all of this. That was too close. Now did not feel like quite the right moment though. He would far rather muse out loud about pink feathers and the limits of seafood buffets.

“So, angel, about those boxes...” he said, voice a little high for a whole new reason, indicating the ones by the door.

“Oh, yes.” he said, allowing him to take their interaction wherever he was comfortable, just before starting to look quite sheepish.

“It was suggested to me, ever so politely, that if there were books I did not want to sell, that I should consider setting them apart from the rest, especially if I didn't want them handled, and that -perhaps- since this -is- a book shop, that I should consider stocking some books that I actually intended to be for sale...”

Crowley looked incredulous. His mouth moved for a second and then gave up for another moment.

He had some great suspicion of just -who- that suggestion had come from, recently, and he could not believe Aziraphale was willing to entertain anything anyone had to say on the matter, least of all someone he acted outwardly irritated with whenever they were not there -at least now that he remembered them in their absence- not so much over their actions, or person, as much as everything they had ever had the audacity to say, ever so politely or not.

“Another daring suggestion from our regular, I take it?” he tested.

“Well... They're not -wrong- Crowley... It is a shop, and I can be rather...”

“Dragonish? About your hoard?”

“Yes, well, _some_ of their ideas are better than others... And I -did- ask.” he admitted, because he had, against his better judgement.

“And I thought, it wouldn't be such a bad idea, to find books that are still in production, that I -would- want people to take home with them, or to... relocate the books that I really think of as _mine_ , or that are too precious, and maybe it is a fair idea to make copies of some of the rarer texts that could be signed out or sold, as educational resources, to protect the originals...” he went on, conceding to things Crowley never thought he could; settle down with a demon in the country, in defiance of all of heaven, sure, but not actually entertain someone else's suggestions about his shop.

“What _has_ brought all this on, angel?” he asked, betraying real concern.

“Well, I thought, if we were going to move away soon... It might be better to figure this out as quickly as possible... Be honest with myself about which books I really won't part with, which ones should be kept -under glass- so to speak, and come up with a system to manage the shop... So _someone_ can manage the shop while we're away.”

He said this, but his eyes looked quite watery at this point.

“Oh, angel, you...” Crowley began, turning to him and drawing him in close because he was quite clearly about to be in tears, “You don't have to leave, we don't -have- to go anywhere... The shop is... It's your home, been your home, for so long... Our home. It's full of so many memories isn't it? Of _us_... Of...”

He nodded tearfully.

“Yes, it is, it is... but darling, listen...” he said, wiping his eyes and taking his hands, “I know I don't -have- to do anything, and that we don't _need_ to leave, but I never picked this place out for the both of us to share... Not in the beginning. It _does_ have so many memories, good... and bad, but I _want_ to find a good place to build a home _together_.” he explained.

Crowley now had his face in his hands and was kissing his forehead softly.

“And you know what else holds all sorts of memories of us, together, and everything we've been through?” Aziraphale asked from under his chin.

“Books?” Crowley asked, looking around, though not straying too close to directly across from them.

Aziraphale smiled, but shook his head.

“You, darling... You do.” he paused, “I'd rather have you than any of this. I'd rather go away somewhere that's made for both of us.” he said nuzzling close to him, melting him completely.

“And it's not like I'm giving up the shop, not really. It will still be here.” he assured himself as much as Crowley.

“Besides, to be perfectly practical about it, a blank spot in heaven's notice _is_ a bit suspicious. We -should- ward the shop and both your flats, to keep anyone from nosing into what they can't quite recall... But I think it's not entirely inconvenient that we might want to go somewhere new.”

“Somewhere that's ours.” Crowley said, stroking his cheek.

“Both of ours, from it's conception... Something you chose too.”

“You want to pick out a house together, angel?” he asked, nuzzling back, wings rustling behind him.

Crowley kissed his face effusively, finally drawing out a giggle and all the shy blushing he thought most people would expect of Aziraphale. He kissed his hands and his nose, under his chin, and watched his wings wiggle and rustle, puff up when he got too flustered.

“Crowley.” he wined, mildly, after this had gone on for some time.

It seemed like idle protest.

“Don't you like kisses, angel?” he checked anyway.

“Oh, absolutely.”

“What would -you- like, right now?” Crowley asked him, hoping to make some headway this time.

Aziraphale kissed his face a few times very enthusiastically, wings wiggling enough to show how pink they were where the feathers thinned underneath. Crowley let his hands trail back around him just far enough to sink right back into that warmth. He wanted to dig his fingers in firmly, massaging and stroking at any skin he could reach, but he thought he should resist that. Besides, his hands were quickly cooling and he did not think that would be pleasant. It was only just barely fall and already his fingers were consistently cold. As if sensing his hesitation and a fraction of the cause, Aziraphale scooped up his hands and brought them up to kiss them, drawing a whine somewhere between protest and surrender from his throat. His lips were so warm.

“Would you like to help me set up these shelves?” he asked, kissing his fingers again, “You've always been better at assembling these things... Then maybe we could look at some real-estate listings?” he suggested sweetly.

On one hand Crowley was hoping to glean some indication of what kinds of affection Aziraphale might prefer. On the other, he could only feel -so- absorbed in this conflict about wanting to kiss him more, at this very moment, on account of his clear enthusiasm about building a new life together.

“Not that I want to rush into anything, but it wouldn't hurt would it? To look at what's available?”

It occurred to him again that Aziraphale was probably more comfortable when the focus was off of himself. So long as the attention was on Crowley and what he was enjoying and how he felt about it, Aziraphale did not have to be the focal point of the interaction, and that was probably exactly how he had been getting away with being so forward, leaving Crowley to be the one to fall to pieces. It was comforting to know he could likely turn that around when he wanted to, if Aziraphale wanted him to.

“And just think... There'll be no customers.” Crowley joked, earning more good humour than he expected.

~*~

Of course Aziraphale did not need his help assembling the shelves, miracles or not, but it was one more thing they could indulge in doing together, the way humans did. It was almost disappointingly easy and quick, hardly even an opening for banter, not that he would be capable of it now past all the fond gazing whenever he seemed to be focused on the task at hand. Not long enough ago, Aziraphale would pretend not to be watching him if he turned to look, but now all pretence had been abandoned. It was just as well he should be expected to take some time to himself and calm his nerves.

For some reason he had tried to convince Aziraphale to come see him again in time for a late dinner. Perhaps not the most advisable thing, but it was hard to think clearly as of late, Aziraphale did have a point about that. It did not sound likely that he would, not from his tone or insistence that Crowley might need a bit of personal space, to sort himself out or whatever else he thought he needed. Even after being caught pouting and having it dragged out of him that he did not really want to sleep alone, to his own embarrassment, he was still kissed gently. reassured, and sent on his way. Aziraphale wanted him to focus on whatever he needed to rather than just occupy himself until he came back, as he put it. It was just one afternoon, a night at most.

The point, this time, was actually to leave him to his thoughts, on _purpose_. For whatever good it would do, trying to think with all these bright lights getting in the way of it.

He was not even sure why he was so reluctant to leave his side, they had spent such bafflingly long amounts of time apart before, but now the way he missed him every moment was acute, even asides from being a little on edge about being caught defenceless or separated. He suspected the immediacy of it had something to do with their interactions, with the -way- they interacted, having become the main concern of most of his waking thoughts. It was not the first time Aziraphale had consumed all his attention, but this was something in a league of its own; duration, intensity and flavour.

All he wanted to do was wrap around him and never let go. He wanted it to be uncomplicated to indulge his instinct to get caught up in ever escalating affection and intimacies. He thought they would both enjoy that a fair deal. There was one last conversation they had to get out of the way first though, and soon, before something went disastrously awry, or -at least- not the way it _could_. He also wished the context for it all was something easy to bring up.

He paced his new flat, counting the difference in the number of steps it took to get between one thing and another, noting its differenced from his old flat and all the constructed similarities. He kept thinking he would like a nap, but his mind was too restless and laying alone no longer felt right. Undoubtedly, that was something he could blame on something annoyingly akin to hormones, as far as he could tell. Still, he almost wished he had agreed to more time to think about this, not that he -really- expected to think up some miracle solution, happen upon some angle he had not thought of yet that would make this any easier.

“I've just gotten used to holding you at night, is all.” he mocked himself, barely out loud, not sure when he had ever conceded to being the kind of person who would say such a thing.

He trailed fingers along rows of records he had no intention of playing right now on his way past. He was being ridiculous. Of course he could hardly blame himself, and he was sure Aziraphale would not either, but there was no way to have the conversation without it being equal parts heartbreaking and incredibly mortifying. Knowing he would not have to face any harsh judgement, in all likelihood, somehow was not helpful, but he could hardly let Aziraphale carry on thinking, even vaguely suspecting, or worrying that he might be doing something wrong or upsetting or triggering or anything else. It was just unacceptable. The fact that he had let it drag on this long had already become a source of guilt. He kept trying to reassure him, but it did not feel like enough.

The moments of distance he had started to try to put between them felt so forced and artificial. He was trying to make sure it was not being misread, that it was obvious that he wanted all of this, that he would happily indulge in more, if only he could bring himself to tip his whole hand. There was definitively a reward waiting on the other side of this, but he just wanted to fall back into the comfortable warmth of his hands uninterrupted.

Too often in his long history on earth, he felt very literally like a snake stuffed into a human skin, like a hundred little squirming things trying -and sometimes failing- to work a clockwork puppet, like his body was alien and separate and not something he was supposed to identify with at all. Sometimes that was easier. A long time ago when he was expected to take this body he was given and use it to do his work, that had made it so much easier. There was Crowley the person he was inside, and then there was the construct of what kind of person Crowley was on the outside. They were separate, and that was simpler, even if it was often distressing.

When Aziraphale was holding him though, that disappeared, his skin felt like his own skin, his nerves felt like they should connect where they did, this body felt like an extension of himself in ways it had not quite before. His body felt like his own and like it was always supposed to be his own. His touches were not something being done to the skin he had to inhabit, but something being shared with him, because it was wanted. All he wanted to do was get back to that feeling and stop having to think about how the past had gotten him to where he was now.

Eventually, his feet got bored of the floor and he paced the walls instead, keeping mostly to frames where the paint might be easier to wipe clean, until he realized he was being polite about it, and promptly walked out to the centre of the nearest wall.

Somehow they had already slipped so easily past simple kisses and now every time he had to put an artificial halt to what they were doing it only reminded him that he never intended to let it get this far, not just yet. He knew it would not change anything, but it was not the kind of thing you could just proceed reasonably without being fully aware of, and Crowley very much wanted to proceed. He was even actually letting himself acknowledge just how much so, perhaps because it seemed so mutual.

Before long he had given up anything more specific than just promising himself he would get to it this week, at the next reasonable opportunity, even if he had to invent it. He found himself laying next to the light fixture and stared down at the expanse of bare floor with a sigh. Aziraphale was not wrong to be worried, he had noticed the same things. He just did not think it was of dire significance.

He knew enough about the way -what he had that stood for biology- functioned to know this was something he could expect from the amount of stress he had been under, and he really did think it was just that; stress. Nothing more complicated than taxing his vessel more than he could make up for with self-care rituals or all the affection he was suddenly being treated to. It would pass.

It would pass, but not before the itching he could not reach drove him up an entirely different kind of wall. At first he thought it might be a metaphorical kind of itch, left in the aftermath of his skin tingling and burning, between the times when Aziraphale was touching him. As time wore on though, it was getting more pronounced, and hearing everything the way Aziraphale had put it, he could hardly keep rationalizing it way. It was not as though nothing like this had ever happened before, just not nearly to this extent.

The other day he had noticed _dandruff_. He did not get dandruff. It was impossibly uncool of him to get dandruff and not at all sexy. He bought a new shampoo and hoped this one helped, not really relating that issue consciously to any other. Now he was too aware that his scalp itched like everything else, and he hated the way it smelled. He never liked the smell of sulphurous compounds, even the ones that were decidedly less pungent than the lakes in hell.

He always suspected demons had an issue processing sulphur, or their corporations did, like some humans, because of how much of it hung around them residually from their fall and being in hell in general, as if it overloaded their ability to process it all out properly. He thought this might be responsible for the rumour that demons left behind sulphurous residue, and that it maybe also explained why certain medical applications of sulphurous compounds just were not effective for him. God help any human with a sulphur processing issue or allergy to run into a demon the wrong way.

He could miracle away the feel of it all, just like he could miracle away any inconvenient reaction he could have to any of this, but it would just come back. Until he could address the underlying cause of it altogether, the physical or cognitive processes leading up to it, it would only just come back. Warm hands smoothing over all of his skin was the only thing that was distracting enough to his nerves that he could forget about it, but that was a lazy morning memory now and it was not helping him feel less restless.

The blank expanse of floor stared back at him. Blond wood. He was used to his floors being stylishly dark. Granted, the plants did seem to appreciate all the extra light. Now, viewing it from above and through a canopy of green, it reminded him of sand, except smooth, hard, so very flat. An impulse gripped him to cover it all with paint. He did think that was the kind of mischief that would certainly come back to bite him, covering his floor with paint, but he could always put down a canvas.

Finally, a compulsion was biting at him that had nothing to do with soft and demonstrative touches. Finally he had a distraction.

~*~

Aziraphale paced in his shop. He did not really want to send him away, especially not if he was willing to show his reluctance. The problem was that he had some sense it was too easy, to stay wrapped up in how good something felt and not really be able to genuinely take a step back and think about things critically when everything was so comfortable, and he wanted to make sure he was doing his due diligence, to make sure Crowley really did not end up with any regrets, either in what passed between them or how it came to pass.

He had some idea how these thing generally went, for humans at least, the way people fell into each other and the general progression things took. Crowley was definitely still hung up on something. This big thing that was so many other smaller things all bundled up together and complicated. He seemed, all at once, reluctant to approach it, eager to get past it, and anxious to let anything really progress until it had been addressed. He got the sense, in short, that there was a order of operations here that Crowley thought was most appropriate, but that it was difficult, potentially even a traumatizing thing in and of itself to have to bring up. He was relatively certain that it changed nothing for him, but he was sure it mattered somehow to how he handled Crowley.

What complicated it was that he did not want anything in his own caution to read to him as any kind of rejection. He did not want to unnaturally hold back affection or force them apart, or seem reluctant to engage with him because he was fairly certain Crowley was far more sensitive than he realized to that sort of thing, and that if he gave him the opening to, he would twist himself around into believing that he was only going along with things to save his feelings.

Now though, they were falling so easily into escalating displays of affection that were -heating up- so to speak, and though he did not want to force him to address it, he did want to make sure he had the perspective he needed and that nothing got carried away just because he was caught up in the moment.

He was still trying to decide how many copies of each book should go on the new shelves and how to arrange them, moving them back and forth between shelves, only to decide to move them down a row. Everything else given, being apart made him anxious in ways he did not think it had before. The only exception maybe when they were dragged off away from each other to their mismatched punishments.

Really he could only imagine what Crowley must be struggling with. His own wings were hidden now only by a glamour to keep humans from noticing, and he had to fight to keep all of his eyes to himself, wanting to check on him. He had never craved the warmth of a bed before, not like this, but now that he was trying to go about his usual business, all he could think of was sinking his fingers into feathers and hair, and the warm sliding of fabric and wings folding him back into bed. He found himself counting moments until he should be allowed to go back to him. Maybe dinner was not such a bad idea. Maybe sleeping alone was not necessary to have time to think. People generally do not think much while they sleep anyway.

~*~

He had at least considered that it would be impossible to get to the whole canvas short of being on it, at least if he wanted to do this as humans did, that sparked a whole other brilliant indulgence, and he had even taken into consideration to use water-based paint which would run off easily with water, rather than harden into a plastic-like substance. That was about where his planning and consideration had ended before he threw himself into it with abandon. Call it needed stress relief. He summoned canvas, appropriate paint and an appropriately limited garment and went to work.

He had not even really decided yet if painting was quite the right hobby for him. He was not bad at it, but he did not feel particularly talented either. He enjoyed the process of it, the experimentation and opportunities to test curiosities and discover solutions and technique, but he felt somewhat ambivalent about the results. This was interesting though. Absolutely unstructured, very little planning, very little technical considerations. Not at all the way he would usually approach something. Fun.

First he would cover the canvas in the largest forms, human body creating shapes and colours, wings soaking in paint of every colour like a thousand paint brushes doing synchronized dances, dragging rainbows in their wake. Then snake forms of various sizes, some winged and others not, took their turn in succession, staring wide-eyed at the canvas in enthusiasm before leaping into their contribution, some side-winding, others hopping from coil to coil, others still leaving imprints like they had sprouted wings and launched into the air; or -at least- that was what you might _hope_ had happened from the miscoloured imprints and spatters left behind.

Finally the smallest red-belly bounced across the canvas with joyful abandon before stopping at one edge and recoiling in panic at the sound of the door opening. Of course it was already seven. One hop off the canvas turned into another that landed on human feet, wings passing like shadows through a robe being pulled hastily on. That was another thing, his wings had entirely developed a mind of their own, but that was not his most immediate concern right that moment.

“Oh.” Aziraphale said in pleasant and soft surprise, unable to miss the large, and now very colourful, canvas even from at the door.

He edged politely into the room, testing if he would be allowed close enough to see it better.

“Oh, how lovely.” he cooed.

“I-” his voice cut off as Aziraphale turned to him next.

There was Crowley, splattered and smeared from head to toe in paint. The black satin robe did not show any of the colour, but it clung to him everywhere it was sticking to the paint underneath. He looked sheepish, like he had been caught at some mischief.

“Oh. I thought you'd get it past your arms eventually, but-” he referenced his last comment on the matter, in what he thought was an obvious attempt at humour.

“ _Is_ this...?” he asked, tilting his head slightly and already bringing a had up to unbutton one cuff.

“Er, W-” was all his voice managed as his mind started trying to chew on what all of this must look like.

Within a couple seconds he was swearing internally. Of course he had forgotten how all of this started. Paint on his wrist. Aziraphale had taken up a habit of washing it off for him. It was their excuse in the beginning. He wanted to explain that this was not what it looked like, but he was struggling with words at the moment and he genuinely did not know what Aziraphale _would_ naturally assume. Despite his clear hesitation to draw conclusions, he was already rolling up one sleeve, as if readying himself to get to work. Crowley felt his knees vanish. Curse them. That was not dignified at all.

Now Crowley was holding himself up on his arms, sparing reproachful glances at his tail, paint soaking through the silky black robe. Blue and magenta still smeared across his cheek, losing itself slowly in the intensity of his blushing. More paint splatter still made it look like he had developed ever more freckles that were an expressive range of colours. His feathers puffed up slightly, even as his wings seemed to droop away.

“ _Oh_...” he said softly “But darling, if you wanted a bath, you could have just asked.” he said, fairly certain he was teasing him, but sincere enough in the offer to have started rolling up his other sleeve.

Crowley's eyes flickered to the movement and back as he turned very red.

He did not want to be reacting this way, at least he did not think so. The tail was becoming a convenient way to hide whatever other reaction he was having, as he was slowly coming to admit to himself, but he had not intended to find this situation so suggestive. He was not trying to seduce or tempt him into anything. The potential implications of the situation were something he was still processing, and now failing to for all the little lights getting caught up in his gears and stripping him away from coherent thought.

“That's not... I didn't...” was as far as he got before bright blue eyes met his and he felt the scales start to stretch up his sides, creeping after the intense feeling of his skin turning hot and red and slowly consuming him.

He had not meant for this, at least, he did not think so. It was too much, the heat in his face and even the fact that he was finding it all so very tempting, like heady desire was being upended into him, and his own embarrassment at how easily his own thoughts had nosedived into what was being offered. His voice squeaked. How terribly undignified of it to do so.

“Oh.” Aziraphale said in an entirely new tone of voice, stopping in his tracks.

Crowley was left curled in the puddle of satin, the paint now barely visible against dark scales and hiding his eyes with his tail because he no longer had eyelids. He had turned back into the tiny red-belly, his wings now about the size of a chickadee's. At least he had narrowly avoided an intensity of blushing that would have surely discorporated him.

“Oh darling... I'm sorry. Should I have- I should have...” he had knocked, if not very alarmingly, “Given you more warning. Oh, and now I've gone and embarrassed you...” he sighed.

He wanted to pick up the little snake, comfort him, but he was concerned that was the opposite of what he should be doing. Instead, he kneeled down where he was, headless of any stray paint, then surprised Crowley further by outright laying belly-first on the floor. When tiny yellow eyes peeked at him, tail still curled over his snout self-consciously, he slowly offered him one finger tip across the floor.

“N-not whhat I wasss trying to accomplishhh, angel.” he finally hissed in a small voice.

Thought he could not deny how his mind and skin had lit up at the thought of having his hands back on him. He did not want to actually start insisting out loud that it was an -innocent- misstep in judgement, certainly that would not befit a demon.

“Oh, sweetheart, I wasn't trying to accuse you of anything.” he soothed him, “And I didn't mean to be forward.” he apologized, “And it really is lovely.” he cooed.

“I mean that.” he said after another moment of silence, “You'll have to bring it with us when we move... If that's alright.” he said, nudging under his chin gently as he coiled towards his hand.

Crowley wrapped himself around his hand.

“That does look like it was fun. Oh dear, you really are coated in it though...” he observed, feeling how the paint was getting vaguely gummy as it dried against his hand, “And now you're all small and...” he struggled not to put his anxiety into words, knowing it must seem silly, but he could not help shoot an anxious look towards the tub.

“Angel.” he sighed quietly.

“A _warm_ bath would be nice, wouldn't it? But please be careful, my love.” he tried to say in a conversational tone, “I could draw one for you, if you'd like? Make sure it's nice...”

“And warm? Angel...” he sighed again, somewhere between affection and exasperation.

“Well, it's not like I don't have a reason to worry... And you're all small, and obviously in some kind of state-” he defended.

“Oh, Aziraphale...” he sighed in tiny hisses, giving his hand a gentle squeeze, “You know I can't be discorporated like that, don't you? Getting cold? We don't really need to breathe do we? It's not cold enough to actually freeze in a tub is it?”

“I- I suppose, but darling, I couldn't bear the thought... You all upset and hurt and cold and alone... Vulnerable, until someone came and found you...”

As if he would be waiting long until Aziraphale would come looking for him, especially now. He could just miracle the paint away, but he had been looking forward to a hot shower or bath when he was done, feeling the water drag all the pigment and medium back off his skin and out of his feathers. There was something very satisfying about getting clean the way humans did. He thought it might help Aziraphale too, notions and memories about him and baths that did not bring up such anxious memories.

“Angel... Would _you_ feel better? If you bathed me?” he asked very quietly, his voice as small as he was.

Aziraphale remembered what happened the last time he tried to bathe while too emotional, and he certainly also remembered what the plan was for him the last time anything resembling an angel brought someone resembling him near anything resembling a tub, and yet, he coiled affectionately about his hand now, entertaining this.

“Would you be comfortable with that?” he asked, remembering how red he had turned the moment the implication had been made, “Like this, then? Would you like that?” he asked, indicating his form.

Crowley nodded. He was not sure he could change shape right then if he wanted to anyway.

As anxious and embarrassed as he had been only moments ago, this suddenly seemed a very pleasant way to spend an evening, if still a little embarrassing. This change of form changed the context entirely. Now it was a kind of shared therapy, a trust exercise, a conscious reconditioning, intimacy without it being sexual.

Aziraphale chattered softly about the changes he was making to the shop as he carried him to the bathroom. He found and folded a wash cloth in the built-in soap holder, which Crowley never used, making a little nest of it to set him in gently as he went to work making up the bath. The sight of him rolling up his sleeves, or his exposed forearms, was never supposed to be suggestive either, but Crowley knew he had a habit of setting himself up for unintended consequences, and now it was somehow worse with competent help.

“Darling, you do make such a precious little amphithere.”

Unlike the first time he had been so small, there was no attempt to fudge his natural colouration, so he did not look like any particular species of snake, just himself, but delicate and small. The tiny wings were a painfully adorable addition. He had been able to see the earnest energy and enthusiasm left in the little paint marks across the canvas, and imagining it now, and seeing his beloved friend still so small and equally earnestly curling back into his hand, had him feeling as affectionate as he could. It physically hurt to hold it all in, but he was not sure how much open cooing he would get away with.

Crowley had watch him fuss with the water temperature for some time, and was presently quite glad snakes could not blush, because it was impossible not to see his heart melting by the look on his face. He was surprised and relieved he had turned all the way into a snake at all, rather than getting stuck in the half state, as he would have expected from the situation. Perhaps his conditioning was giving up its hold enough that his embarrassment could outweigh whatever else he had been feeling in the moment. He still was not entirely sure he had not nodded enthusiastically by accident for any length of time during this exchange.

He watched Aziraphale carefully consider the available bottles for what to put in the bath. He seemed to be opting for the most natural and hydrating options he could find, perhaps trying to make sure it was suitable to his current form. Still, he glanced at the water suspiciously, fussing with everything unnecessarily.

“Angel? What is it?”

“Oh... Oh I'm just being silly, really, I'm sure...” he immediately admonished himself, “But we're sure this is safe of course... Me being an angel, and all, we've bathed together before haven't we? In Rome at least if not... And it, it _wouldn't_...” he reasoned.

Of course he had never been the one to prepare the bath.

“Oh really... You know only priests and the like can make holy-water, remember?” he reminded him.

For some reason their creator saw fit to limit their own abilities, and to give humans some say in the ethereal and occult that skipped them over in subtle ways.

“Well it just so happens I am -also- actually ordained...”

Of course. Of course Aziraphale would not have simply pretended to be a priest, that would be dishonest, of course he would not have seen fit to lie about holy-water or anything else that would entail. Of course his human vessel could do what most any humans could. Of course there was no rule saying an angel could not also be a holy man.

“And have you ever accidentally made water holy? By your very presence?”

“No... no of course not.” he sighed, “Of course I know I'm just being paranoid....” but he still muttered something to himself about something clearly being the devil's work and added what seemed like a safe few drops of axe body-wash, which Crowley did not even remember buying.

“Satisfied yet?” Crowley asked lazily, thankful he could not shiver.

“I'm sorry,darling, you've been waiting so patiently...” he went back to cooing gently.

He offered him his hand next to the soap holder, obviously melting a little at the delicate little winged creature putting himself in his hand. Really it was just embarrassing how he kept looking at him. He lowered him gently to the water where he could taste the air about it and dip his tail in to check that it was to his liking.

Then Aziraphale watched him glide into the water, leaving a bright trail of colour behind him, like a shadow leading rainbows, as he swam first to one end of the tub and then circled around to the other. Sometimes he forgot what proficient swimmers snakes were, but of course most species hunted in water whenever it suited them, he imagined. He watched the bright and translucent colours swirl out behind his wings and tried not to actively make too many sounds of amusement and delight.

Before long the cyan and magenta had over-powered any yellow enough to settle into a faint and surprising lilac colour, rather than the brown he would have suspected, and Crowley came back to his hand to rest.

“Oh stop it...” Crowley said at the expression on his face he was clearly trying not to make.

“But sweetheart, you're absolutely precious.”

Crowley himself did not know if snakes could generally roll their eyes, but he made his own attempt at it. Still, he was enjoying the too-gentle stroking and all the careful handling, even if he could not bring himself to say so. His wings being so small meant they could be stroked in their entirety all at once, and that was very soothing. Flapping and flipping around to shake the paint saturated water out was only met with amusement rather than any concern about his clothes, which made him feel warm and fuzzy, and also drew his attention to his clothes being a bit different from usual. He would have to ask about that.

Eventually, it became too awkward not to talk and the conversation meandered where it wanted to, including the technicalities of the painting in question, the method hidden in all of the madness, and the choices he had made that had unknowingly leant to this final and ridiculous conclusion. Crowley still seemed embarrassed and certainly a little off balance, but was easy to draw into responding and seemed to be coping better than usual with the compromising circumstances.

“Well, I can't say painting yourself into corners isn't one of your more charming tendencies.” Aziraphale commented, running a bit of fresh water to help him rinse off.

He looked so small and pathetic curled up in his hand and soaking wet, especially when he writhed subtly at compliments.

“Is not.” he protested weakly and too quietly, “Got loads more charming qualities than that, me...” he grumbled ineffectively.

“Of course, darling...” he said, offering him a fluffy face-cloth to help him dry off and keep him warm.

“There.” he said with some finality, “That was nice, wasn't it?” he asked him, once he was sure his wings were fairly well dried through and bundling him up when he could not tell the exact reason for his wings quivering.

“Now how about dinner?” he asked brightly, “I've brought something I really think you'll like.”

Crowley had completely forgotten the excuse of dining together and had been anticipating curling up together in his new favourite chair for a nap.

“Sure, Angel.”

They could always eat their fill and then go to sleep.

“Can you? Do you think, change shape? Did you want to eat dinner like this?” he asked, taking them back out to the living area.

Crowley made another attempt to see if he could roll his eyes.

“Be a bit rude to try with you holding me like this, wouldn't it?”

Aziraphale looked to him to see how much he was teasing him, but of course all he could get from his tiny face was an even, unrevealing, stare. He gave him a mockery of an annoyed look, and set him gently on the arm of the sofa.


	13. A snake on your shoulder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suppose the warning for this one is a bit of dramatic foreshadowing at the end. 
> 
> I will try to have the next chapter up soon. This one is a slight bit shorter than I think I usually post, but the next scene is probably going to be pretty long and I did not want to end up with something too long, or artificially inflate these scenes. [Not that I'm trying to accuse my writing of being excessively to the point or anything]
> 
> I promise it's all going somewhere. If you want to wait for the next chapter before reading this one to avoid any suspense, I'll understand.

~*~

Only once Crowley shifted back to human form did he realize just how much of a social reprieve being a snake had been for the moment. It always seemed to add some comfortable abstraction, drew some line as to what roles they could currently fill. Now he sat in black satin pyjamas on the arm of the couch feeling his skin heat up again. He scratched absently at the back of his hair and then stopped before he could upset any dandruff.

“There you are.” Aziraphale said, coming to him and fixing a bit of his hair for him.

He always did this. He responded to each change in shape like it was some new aspect of Crowley he had not seen in a while and missed while they were gone. Crowley was not even sure it was some kind of trick of perception, given that each form came with completely different levels and kinds of emotional vulnerability, but sometimes it was tempting to change shape just to be greeted like this and kissed softly.

Enough tender kisses like the ones pressing to his forehead and cheek and he might even forget about being shy. Aziraphale seemed stuck on handling him like he was fragile and it was doing things to his skin that he did not want to have to comment on. He wanted to take him by the hand and lead him back over to the chair, but when he stood, Aziraphale stepped over to the door just long enough to collect his bags and lead him out to the kitchen.

Dinner, it turned out, was a new trend, fusion cuisine, as they called it, this particular dish was a lot like sushi in its bite-sized and tidily packaged form, and its tendency towards rice, seaweed paper and cured or raw meats and proteins, but borrowed heavily from other cultural palettes, striking many of Crowley's favourite notes. As their meal wound onward he got the distinct impression Aziraphale had done a lot of the work selecting these pieces in particular and that the restaurant in question did not normally do take-out orders at all. It was exceptionally good and the bite-sized nature of it meant he could try everything and only eat as much as he was hungry for, which -as it turned out- was more than he thought.

Once dinner was done Crowley was relieved to finally be able to tug him towards their chair, until he felt him hesitate. He seemed a bit busy taking in the whole of the thing and shaking his head.

“What is it, angel?”

Aziraphale glanced around between all the soft things and objects intended for comfort that he had managed to squeeze into the previously sleek and sparse flat without Crowley raising any protest, that Crowley had, in fact, matched to some degree with his own additions, finally landing back on the chair. He began to look self-conscious.

“Aziraphale?” he tried again softly.

“Oh, well, it's just...” he inspected his own nails, in a somewhat nervous gesture, “It really is like I've been building a nest...” he said very quietly, sparing him a glance, and developing a charming blush.

Crowley rolled his eyes quite successfully that time.

“Oh yes, nesting, and for me, that must be embarrassing for you.” he said, voice fading, clearly intending it as a joke, but Aziraphale could see the doubt his own comment sparked in him, see the way he folded just subtly, shifting his weight and glancing away.

“Oh, darling, no...” he said, taking him into his arms lightly, “It's just, I don't know if I'm -supposed- to do that.” he said looking somewhat worried, but more so something Crowley would struggle to define as anything other than being akin to apologetic, “It's silly.”

Demons did that, at least some of them, depending on their counterpart, it was considered normal _enough_.

“Demons do, some of 'em, anyway... Would it be all that surprising if angels did it too?”

He asked, trying to follow Aziraphale's proposed logic that what was natural to one of them may not be so alien to the other after all. Part of his mind was already suggesting questions about whether angelic mating rituals were any kind of hint as to what their counterpart would end up being if they ever fell, but that question implied a lot of things he did not really want to bring up at the moment.

Aziraphale, meanwhile, was suffering a similar impulse, right next to one encouraging him to snap that angels were not all just elaborate birds. He was not even sure what about the suggestion bothered him. He did not think it was that he might have more in common with demons than they had thought, and he certainly did not want to go about saying anything hurtful.

“I really don't know if they do.” he said honestly.

“Not worried you're changing? Or because I'm a d-”

“No no... Dear boy, not at all.” he said, sure of it the moment he did and cupping his face gently again.

“There's no one else I could want, or who could possibly be more deserving than you.” he said, kissing his face again and drawing him into a hug.

“But it _does_ bother you.” he observed, firmly, after acclimating for a minute, from over his head.

“Well, yes, but, not because of... Of you, or being like a demon, or anything like that... I-” he sighed, taking along moment to consider it.

“I think the implication that bothers me more is that it's because I'm an _angel_... That it's _because_ I _am_ the same as them in that way. That it's _not_ individual and personal, to _us_.”

Besides that, as inattentive as he was, it had been a very long time and he was concerned that not observing the others doing this spoke more to their general oppressive culture and rampant emotional abuse than it did to his own obliviousness at this point. The idea that She would have seen fit to give angels bird-like pair bonding instincts to go with bird-like wings, like some cute joke, in response to some celestials becoming jealous of human mating, actually seemed entirely consistent to him, somehow.

Then Crowley was kissing his face.

“Oh.” he said, not really surprised, and quite forgetting he was upset at all.

Maybe voicing such ardent sentiments about wanting to be aligned to whatever Crowley was and actively wanting to distance himself from anything at odds with him, and showering him so firmly with affection and compliments -as if he did not even have to think to do so- would be met with this kind of effusiveness for some time yet.

“Crowley...” he complained affectionately when his kisses started to trail down the side of his jaw.

Crowley righted himself and cleared his throat. His hand switched from holding him back tenderly, to fixing his collar, smoothing over his vest and inspecting these new clothes for any sign of paint.

Aziraphale honestly loved how red he turned. He thought it looked rather sweet. Of course he could not tell him that, or it would make him uncomfortable, either in general or by making him blush more. Instead he kissed his cheeks where they were hot, usually anyway, at the moment he would have to stand too far on his toes and Crowley was busy looking him over.

Normally, Aziraphale would never be caught in modern or synthetic fibres. Those were just things that would not be fitting for an angel. Plastic fibres were bad for the environment and he was somewhat obviously in love with historical fashion and manufacturing processes. This vest stood out as both new, and too soft to the touch to be any natural fibre Crowley had ever encountered.

He did not know why he expected the shirt that accompanied it to be beige, but he was pleasantly surprised to find that it was not only a high enough thread-count of cotton to make it very soft, but also actually pink. Combined with the blue tone of the vest and the beige of his trousers, it was altogether more colourful of an outfit than he was used to seeing him in, and very soft, even by comparison to the variety he had already worked into his wardrobe as of late. Once he had started smoothing over the fabric, as if needing to to check for paint, he found he had a hard time stopping.

“I take it you don't mind it then?” he asked.

Crowley resisted just mumbling the word 'soft' uselessly. Instead his fingers kept testing at the fabric at his sides, feeling how soft it was while he tried to figure out what he _should_ say.

“It's soft.” he said, uselessly.

Aziraphale chuckled. Apparently his tone was appreciative enough that he had taken it as a compliment. He _liked_ being soft, and Crowley would throw hands with anyone who tried to make him feel like that was a bad thing. He shook himself out of it a little.

“I love it.” he said, too easily, too automatically, “All of it... The-” he gestured at everything, “The chair, the-” he wanted to indicate the clothes he was holding him in, but he did not want to imply he enjoyed the -change- because he liked the other clothes too, “You. Everything. I-”

Then Crowley looked like he felt he had said too much already. He looked down at the new vest and smoothed his sides in a way that felt more like holding him in it than just feeling the fabric. He was very red now but stepping minutely closer.

All he wanted to do, other than make sure Aziraphale knew that he wanted all of this, was fold into his warmth and softness, and sleep. He felt like he had eaten too much just because it tasted so good and Aziraphale had gone out of his way for it. He had been holding himself back all evening from trying to insist they just lay down together, and now they were right next to his favourite chair to curl up with him in. He would encourage him into it but Aziraphale was looking up at him like he might like to kiss him again.

A tender brush of lips later Crowley was wrapped, arms and wings, around him as possessively as he could be.

'Thank you, angel.”

“Hm?”

“For changing your mind... About dinner.” he sighed into his hair, gathering him closer.

“Oh, well, I didn't see the harm...” he sighed back, almost saying something else but letting it rest.

Crowley pulled back enough to look at him, but decided not to press. He thought it was quite likely they were suffering similar impulses, to stay wrapped around each other all they could, and did not really want to drag that out into conversation yet. Instead, he tried to drag him gently down into their chair.

“It's a very nice nest.” he commented, unable to help it, squirming comfortably to indulge in the way the arm cradled his neck just right, tugging gently so they could both feel how they fit together in it perfectly, even with wings folded to his back.

The foam of it was soft and supportive enough that it cradled his wings as comfortably as the rest of him. They could just pass through objects if they needed to, but they seemed to want to remain tangible as much as they could. Aziraphale's settled over them as he carefully lowered his weight along his side.

“You really don't mind it then?” he asked, stroking his hair, “Not just the chair, but...” he tried to specify all the other liberties he had taken in the name of their comfort.

Crowley hummed indulgently making a show of wiggling down into the chair and further under his weight.

“Angel.” he sighed, “I told you... If your shop is our home, and my flat is... Just extra-” he gestured around for the right syllable to hop to next, “Space... We're going to move in together aren't we?”

“Well, yes...” he conceded.

“So why would I mind?” he tilted his head as much as was convenient and tried idly to look at him, “I -want- to build a home together, angel... I -want- this to be your space too.”

“Our flat?” he asked quietly, kissing his cheek as he rested his head down against his shoulder.

“Mm.” he agreed, wiggling even further, down far enough to be able to look at him again.

Aziraphale was discovering that the more comfortable Crowley got, the more it was coming to the surface that, not only did he enjoy cuddling above all else, but that he was never quite satisfied until he was as tangled up and lightly squeezed between things as he could get. Aziraphale made a mental note to buy him a weighted blanket next, so he could have the weight of a heavy blanket even when it was too hot. He would wonder why he never thought to summon these things for himself, but he felt like he knew. Pleasure seeking was acceptable, if something he was not as practised at as he could be, _comfort_ seeking was undemonic.

Crowley was discovering that what was intended to be an evening of mandated space, had quickly turned into Aziraphale spoiling him. Even the movie he had brought was some new romantic comedy, with an emphasis on comedy, that Aziraphale probably had little interest in.

“I thought I was supposed to be taking time to think.” he mused, humming happily at fingers running through his hair as they both pretended the screen had their interest.

“Yes well, once -I- had a moment alone to think, I-” he stopped a sighed, “I thought maybe you didn't need me to tell you what you needed, and that if what you wanted, or think you need right now, is to spend time together, then... Well, then maybe it had been long enough...”

“You missed me.”

“Don't be ridiculous.” he rolled his eyes.

He would not dismiss that, not any more, but it had been less than a day.

“You did.” he asserted happily, “You can get distracted while I'm waiting upstairs in bed for you for ten hours arranging books, but a few hours knowing I'm off some place else and you _miss_ me.”

“Well, whatever the case, “he began only slightly irritably, “I thought it was very sweet and patient of you to indulge me, and that maybe it would be nice to indulge you for a bit.”

Crowley gave him a long look. He had been coaxing himself earlier with a similar notion, that there was a reward waiting on the other side of all these hard things he had to get through, but this was Aziraphale suggesting it quite literally.

“A reward for good behaviour, then?” Crowley asked, quite red but not looking very pleased about it.

“Well, no... Not like that, I- I don't want to send you away... Not when you'd rather I be here. I thought it was the responsible thing to do, but... Well you made it clear what you'd rather and I didn't listen.”

He still remembered how quickly he had started to feel his absence, and how distressing it was, just then, for some reason he could not define, and then he thought of Crowley missing him the same way, being equally confused by it but not wanting to say anything because it would be pressing too much, and he changed his mind entirely.

“Trying to make up for things again then, angel?” he tested instead.

Aziraphale made a face, refuting that even more strongly, until his mouth twisted into a smirk instead.

“Oh no... No I think you were quite right the first time...” he entertained, seeming to catch on that Crowley was playing with him a little bit.

Crowley cleared his throat, now getting the sense he had decided to play back, and trying to decide whether he regretted teasing him like this.

“I just thought I'd do something nice for you, my sweet, understanding, patient, _darling_ , Crowley.” he cooed gently, nuzzling into the side of his neck and settling against his shoulder.

So often it felt like everyone else labelled him with terrible words so often it carved itself slowly into his skin, leaving marks that everyone could see just looking at him, labels he never asked for that wore him around so everyone could see and say the same things, until Crowley could not help but see those labels when he looked at himself.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, so often had such kind things to say about him, and would say them time and again until he felt like they were visible too. Words like 'clever', 'darling', 'sweet', and 'wonderful' started to feel like they were written over the rest, sometimes with enough dedication that they were the first things he saw. There had been times when allowing for that would only be confusing and pointed and bring up feelings he was not ready to process, but now, now was different. Now was time for them, for softness, for processing, for feeling, healing and resting.

Having those things whispered gently along his neck of course turned him a very impressive shade of red. He felt a nudge like Aziraphale wanted to kiss him there but thought better of it. It was for the best really, all he wanted to do was kiss him and start making suggestions.

“I don't really want to be away from you _at all_... I just couldn't stand the thought of having been less then perfectly careful with you.” he mumbled softly.

Crowley felt the impulse to argue he did not need all this embarrassing tenderness, but he consciously shot that down. This was exactly what he wanted, and he appreciated it so much. His skin was back to tingling hotly all over, at all the soft and careful touches and all the kind and gentle words. He felt like he was floating a little. All his heart knew how to do any more was flutter its way uselessly through almost every interaction they had.

“You had a point though, angel, about everything being so...” he trailed off, losing himself slightly to the state and sensations he was trying to examine critically, “Easy to get lost in.”

“Have you then? Had any thoughts you'd like to share with me, while I was gone?” Aziraphale coaxed.

“Nothing new...”

Aziraphale sighed.

“I'll explain it all soon, angel... Really. Just...” he said, the particular kind of pained he was being very obvious in that moment.

It was the kind of pain of forcing yourself to leave a hot shower or a warm bed because you knew you had to at some point, even though you were not ready yet. Feeling his chest shake, though subtle, also could not be more obvious when he was sandwiched between him and the chair.

“Just not tonight.” Aziraphale finished for him, holding him in close.

Normally, Crowley was used to being stuck between a rock and a hard place, figuratively, if not at times literally, and now he seemed absolutely beside himself trying to wiggle as securely as he could between the soft support of the chair and the gentle weight on his side. Snakes could not purr, but the indulgent humming had about the same effect on Aziraphale's heart strings. He managed to wiggle himself almost most of the way under him before he seemed to think better of it and wiggle back out a little. He brought his hand to his stomach in a less than conscious gesture as he played at paying attention to the screen.

“Are you feeling alright, darling?” he asked, giving a pointed look to his hand, and noting the stitch in his brow.

“I'm f-” Crowley almost answered on impulse, before glancing back lead his eyes back to his own hand, “Might have eaten a bit much.” he admitted.

“Oh sweetheart, you didn't have to...”

“It's nothing, angel, really...”

“Over eat for me...”

“Nah, 'ts just, it was good, is why.”

“You did enjoy it then?”

“Very much... Too much, maybe.”

Sore stomach aside, Aziraphale was not convinced there was such a thing as enjoying food too much, especially not for someone who was usually so picky.

“Still...” he sighed, “May I?” he asked, hand hovering near his.

Crowley shrugged. He did not think it was quite worth miracling away, but he quickly realized that was not the idea. Warm soothing circles quickly distracted him from any discomfort or protest. He only managed to think better of moving his buttoned shirt out of the way after he had done it, but this was alright. It was innocent enough and very warm, and he stayed put in a lulling and predictable pattern over his stomach, which he thought he remembered hurt, but which he could not really be sure did at the moment.

He was not sure how he had eaten too much anyway. Yes, it was good and he ate more than he was exactly hungry for, but it was not actually so much and he could not recall this amount of food ever causing him discomfort before. His skin felt tight and hot and prickled everywhere, but this was distracting enough. He tried to measure for a moment whether he was genuinely in any kind of physical distress. He did not feel sick, despite what his symptoms would seem to indicate, just tired, lethargic really. He felt like he could not hold him back tightly enough and like he would very much appreciate a good long nap.

Crowley did seem to hesitate after getting the interruption of buttons out of the way, and turn quite red, but his next response was to flop back into relaxing with a contented sound. Aziraphale could hardly believe he was entertaining this, but if the past half year had come with any revelations, it was that Crowley was far more cuddly than even he could have guessed, and was not so slowly coming to allow for it. Once he had finally managed to wrap around him, he did not seem to want to let go. He thought it was really quite sweet, but he also thought outright saying so would be pushing it. Instead he quietly kissed his temple.

Maybe this really was just Crowley going through a moment of needing the world to be soft and quiet and to let him rest. They had been so much in the past decade or so, even for beings that lived thousands of years. This really was not the first time Crowley had vanished from the world for a while, and maybe it was the good and right thing that Aziraphale should see him through it this time. He spent most of his spare time reading anyway, and all they had now was spare time. He could read a book just as easily around a sleeping demon as he could at a desk, and his swooning heart insisted this was an improvement.

~*~

Aziraphale thought that maybe he was trying to get Crowley out of bed, and a bit back to doing ordinary things because it would help assure him that, overall, he was still okay and not in the deteriorating condition he seemed to be in. He had agreed to take a few short walks down to a shop or two that seemed interesting. After some point of coaxing though, it started to feel too much like he might be making whatever it was worse by pulling him away from needed rest. He knew Crowley could nap for a century at a time, and while he had assumed it was mostly avoidant behaviour, he did not know that it actually was not just that stress made him need this much sleep.

At some point he realized he had only really managed to re-locate them to Crowley's flat -if also nudge him into reluctant, brief and occasional walks- and this nest of a chair specifically. It was not a bad way to spend time. They tried all sorts of new places where the expectation was more that you would order in, and a few places that found themselves delivering it to their door regardless of their business model. They watched all sorts of movies, and eventually ended up just binge watching The Golden Girls, which Aziraphale was not familiar with and thought at first was an odd choice, but was coming to appreciate. Crowley always did appreciate humour, and this was witty and sharp.

It was not that his concern was not growing, it was that Crowley kept insisting he was fine, and his symptoms were not yet at a point that he knew could not be normal for him, so he did not want to start a fight by insisting he knew better. He tried to have faith that Crowley knew what he was talking about, despite that he seemed to be in a bit of denial. Some morbid voice in his ear kept insisting that if their time was limited, he did not want to waste it fighting, and some other morbid voice kept asking him if Crowley might know it was serious, and hopeless, and would be trying to let them enjoy whatever time they had left together.

He tried to tell both of these voices to be quiet, considering that if he asked if he was sure about being okay one more time he was worried Crowley might go back to hiding any discomfort he -was- in, and they were currently both trying to cultivate his comfort with telling him when something was bothering him, and expressing more wants and needs in general. He was trying to be respectful and handle this how Crowley saw fit.

He had, to some additional relief, managed to entice him into baths. He was not sure what activities they could really partake of that did not require going out, and Crowley did not seem keen on the idea of going anywhere, which might have been the most concerning change, but baths were relaxing, while still being good for you, in the sense of moving around and being warmed, and -in this particular case- in the sense of being social.

He was hesitant to ask at first, because times had changed, but Crowley's bathroom really was like a little at-home bathhouse. There was a sauna, and a large corner tub with benches, of a sort, in addition to the shower, much of it sleek marble. Sure no one was there to attend them, but if they took a moment ordering and preparing food ahead of time, it was much like being in a bathhouse.

Eventually, the impulse wore at him though. The constant suggestion that came from somewhere in himself, like a voice in his ear, that it was one of very few things he could do for him, other than just generally entertaining him and keeping him company, that he would -like- to do things to take care of him, and that Crowley enjoyed baths and physical contact and warmth, ate away at his reservations until there were none.

Finally, trying to entice him off the chair to move around and get a bit of exercise, he asked him.

“Are you sure you wouldn't prefer a walk in the park, or a bath, or maybe trying a new cafe for breakfast?”

Crowley was still sleepy and smiling to himself until it became clear what suggestion he had snuck in. Crowley made a point of blinking at him.

“Or a massage? Or I could preen-”

“A bath?” he tilted his head curiously, apparently considering it.

He had given him a bath before, but he did not expect it to be a regular occurrence. It might get embarrassing if it did. On the other hand, they had bathed together before under other cultural expectations.

“Smell that bad already do I?” he teased.

He was pretty sure that laying around all day meant you did not actually get all that dirty, certainly not enough to need daily baths.

“No, no that's not what I meant...” and he knew it, “I just thought it might be pleasant... It's alright though.”

“Are you... Joining me in this one?” Crowley asked in a carefully level voice, wiggling one foot idly.

“Oh, um... If you'd like.” he said, turning just a little pink.

Aziraphale wondered if seeing each other's corporations would be any different now, for either of them. They had generally had something on before, but this was not a public bathhouse, it was their home, but then, he did not know where the lines were or what Crowley was comfortable with.

“I could...” he summoned long, modern swimming shorts and a soft white t-shirt, testing for a reaction.

Crowley ran a hand idly over the front of the shirt.

“We could have more of that new sushi...” he suggested, tilting his head.

“And maybe a nice glass of wine.” Aziraphale added, thinking the heavier flavours would pair nicely with something with a bit more body to it than they would normally have with rolls.

Before long,Crowley had been tilting his head at him again as he ran the water.

“Angel... You... You know these are going to get wet, don't you?” he asked, smoothing one hand down the shirt and looking at the side of the shorts.

“Well, the fabric -is- designed for that.”

“Is it now?” he asked tilting the other way.

“I'm quite sure I know what swim wear is, dear.”

“Er- yeah uh... 'ts just... Seems awful _light_ , is all.” he said, not quite a protest.

“That's the whole-” he rolled his eyes, then he noticed Crowley's eyebrows and smirk, “Oh!”.

He meant -that- kind of light.

Aziraphale changed the concentration of the coloured stripes to be anything but pale and the shirt shifted to the kind of pink you might expect from losing a red sock in the wash, almost as if blushing with him. It was just enough that nothing in the natural palette of his skin would show through.

He supposed that answered his question at least. This was different, the context was different now.

It was all relatively uneventful asides from that. They talked and laughed like they always had, now interrupted with actually washing the way people did in modern times. Usually it was in the shower, stepping away, but Aziraphale had only fought the impulse to offer to wash his hair for so long. He did not find much in the way of protest for that one either.

Crowley had rolled into the massaging enthusiastically for a while before deciding it might be nice to have longer hair again in general for a bit. He did not usually seem to tie it overly much to ideas of gender, and seemed to like to maintain it as humans did as much as possible, but nothing was really stopping him from having it however he wanted at a moment's notice.

He supposed they also were not really using up miracles messing with humans any more either, in so far as their own reserves of energy or concentration were concerned. He assumed their former sides might be keeping track, but they were not very well going to do anything about it, and could not directly stop them.

“Oh.” was all the mild surprise, fond as it came out, that Crowley got for the sudden handfuls of long red tendrils.

He was quite gently insistent on returning the favour and that was more enjoyable than Aziraphale had expected. Washing each other's backs devolved entirely into back massages and fixing and cleaning each other's feathers. Crowley was still looking a little off, and shedding more feathers than he thought he aught to, but seemed more alert and just as cheery here in the warm water. It seemed at least equally as indulgent a way to spend their days -baths that took hours longer than they had to- but it involved more food and active attention, and seeing his bright and curious mind at work, and that helped assuage some of his anxiety.

Crowley also seemed to be getting increasingly comfortable with these kinds of intimacies without turning into a shaking mess, and that was a relief too. They always used to do stuff like this together without a second thought and Aziraphale did not want that to change. He was starting to get to hear him laugh again, as a habit, between the baths and what they put on the television.

Crowley, meanwhile, had the sense that Aziraphale was entertaining him in some regard, and had not missed all of his anxious fussing, hardly could, but he hoped that in time he would see that nothing was actually wrong and would relax. Of course all the warm and wet caresses over his back and shoulder and all the gentle treatment of his hair and wings was not helping him keep his shape very consistently, but the context was a little different, in general, and he was finding he had a bit more control over whether his legs abandoned him to the mess he had gotten into. As it was, and despite Aziraphale's immediate worry, he was finding the tail was actually much more useful in water than it was on silky sheets. All the massaging also did a fair deal to give his nerves something to focus on and stop buzzing so aimlessly, and he was learning to let himself indulge in the simple sensation of it.

As much as Crowley seemed agreeable to the baths, his other new favourite habit was clearly wedging himself securely between him and the chair and slipping lazily in and out of consciousness. He also found Crowley was tirelessly fond of kisses. Any time he asked if he would like to be kissed, the answer was always an enthusiastic yes, and he always seemed to want to melt back into it until it become physically inconvenient to get comfortable for very long, in the case of baths, or until he had changed shape and was clearly starting to feel overwhelmed.

He had not yet tried to kiss him anywhere but his face, and in general it seemed understood that a good number of things were off limits until they had talked more, but he did seem to enjoy a simple kiss or two on his shoulders and upper back.

Aziraphale was less anxious now that he was scaring him, or doing anything upsetting, but he had learned not to physically get in the way of his tail being able to take shape, not that Crowley every seemed to mind wrapping around him right up until that became an issue. Changing shape also did not necessarily mean he wanted to stop what they were doing, which, could not quite yet be defined as anything other than very drawn out kisses.

“Crowley?” he asked, feeling the scales appear over something like his hip under his hand.

“Hm?” he asked, bright eyed, even if he seemed slightly less than alert.

“Here.” he said, rolling them over so he was resting on top.

He thought there was less chance of accidentally pushing him further than he was comfortable with if Crowley was not pinned.

“Is that better?” he asked.

Crowley melted over his chest and kissed him a few more times.

“Was fine before.” he said, not quite complaining.

“How...” Aziraphale started to ask as he rested his head against the front of his shoulder, “How would I tell? If I was making you uncomfortable? If it's gone past the point where you can say anything, or if you can't?”.

It was relevant because Crowley seemed to like being kissed very much, even when he was being sandwiched gently in place, and despite that it left him either unable or unwilling to pull away far enough to speak. It really seemed like an extreme indication of trust that he kept putting himself in positions where Aziraphale had all the control.

Crowley lifted his head back up a little, then enough to see him properly, leaning on one hand.

“I think you'd know, angel.” he said very quietly, kissing his cheek instead.

“Well, I'd like to think so, but, if you don't mind?” he asked to be humoured, “You are very... Wiggly.”.

It was not squirming in a way that indicated any particular agenda either, it was not seemingly indicating he was caught up in anything or chasing sensations, he just seemed to be very prone to it in general, though it seemed to average out to far more squirming towards him, rather than trying to wiggle away, which was the only reason he had not brought it up sooner.

Crowley turned red, but did not hide this time.

“Wouldn't be... If I wasn't okay with it.” he admitted, looking down at his shirt instead, and plucking at it idly.

He certainly would not let himself be if it was not Aziraphale, if he did not feel safe, and safe from judgement.

“And if you're too still, should I worry then?” he asked, only a little anxious.

He remembered a couple times he had seemed to almost be in a kind of trance, but he had not acted like he minded then either.

“Not generally... Not- being you.”

“How should I tell, then?” he tried to press a little.

He did not want to force him to talk about anything, but he really had to know this, at a minimum.

“I wouldn't... Wouldn't tug or pull, or um... Wouldn't kiss you back, if I minded... If it wasn't what I wanted. Wouldn't squirm or be very relaxed...” he hoped he was painting a clear enough picture without actually painting too much of a visual.

“So if.. If you're stiff? Unresponsive?” he asked, having to have confirmation though he really did not want to think about it.

Crowley managed to make himself nod before curling back into his shoulder. He really did need to stop letting each day turn into the next without getting around to addressing this more completely. It would be so much easier after they talked about it with the whole of it all on the table.

“I'll... I'll tell you tomorrow, explain it all... You can ask, if I don't...” he volunteered, roping himself into it, even as he felt the impulse to yawn.

Everything was getting all fuzzy and heavy.

“If you're ready, darling.” he said, kissing and stroking his hair.

~*~

Aziraphale did not know if he had exactly fallen asleep, not more than having drifted slightly, but it seemed enough for the book he held to slump to the side-table and his brain to invent input for a moment. He felt something sharp against his hip for a fraction of a second, but by the time he was fully awake it had faded. Crowley was fast asleep under him, not quite snoring, too unconscious to be self-conscious, though he did still seem to blush lightly now and then in his dreams, and so trusting.

When Crowley first woke up, it was to hazy bright light, reminiscent of a cocoon of bright white wings and morning sun. He thought of crisp white cotton and soft touches and hummed happily, stretching, and twisting into the feeling of being awake, letting his spine shift how it needed to. The world was contentment and an embracing haze of comfort.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asked, but there was something wrong with his tone.

There was something too delicate in the way he was cupping his face.

“Darling?” A thumb stroked his cheek, “Are you alright?”

Crowley blinked at him.

“I feel f-” he paused for a moment when blinking did nothing to clear the dry haze of sleep.

His smile dropped. He blinked again. Still the world was a bright milky blur.

“Oh... oh darling...” said Aziraphale's voice, which did not sound at all like it was under-water, not the way Crowley would expect for the thick fog that kept him from being able to see the concern on his face.

His voice said it all though.

Crowley tried to sit upright but ended up slumping against him, now, legs not being there the way he expected, gripping at the front of his shirt quite rudely; forgivable, given the circumstances.

“I can't see.” he said, a little too numbly.

“Oh, no... Sweetheart, why didn't you tell me?”

There at least was the word 'no' which -frankly- Crowley had expected to hear him say sooner.

“Aziraphale, I can't see.” he said a little too harshly, “Why can't I see?” he softened back up to address him so closely, but he sounded lost.

“Well -I- see, now...” Aziraphale said, rather cryptically and not helpfully at all, in Crowley's opinion.

“Wait, tell you what? That I've gone blind? How was I supposed to know I'd be going blind?” he tried for a moment to give him a scathing look, but he was not sure it was coming across.

Crowley's scales, which had been looking duller by the day, now looked like a milky and faded imitation of themselves under his hand.

“Crowley, loo- M- Listen to me...” he said, cupping his face and still directing him to look towards the bright blur that was Aziraphale, “You're okay. I have you, and you'll be okay.” he said very firmly.

Crowley understood none of this, his eyebrows made that much clear, but he still relaxed instinctively.

“At least I think you are...” he said, less reassuringly, “Oh, but I suppose it all does make a great deal more sense...”

“Sense? Angel, I can't see you and none of this is making any bloody sense. You're not making any sense, the whole damned world's not, it's gone all fuzzy.” Crowley dissolved from seeming quite genuinely upset to the affect of pouting, and still upset.

It was hard to remain in a panic when Aziraphale was being so calm about the whole thing. He kissed his forehead, and Crowley felt himself soften a little more. His hand moved against his disobedient tail and he was suddenly overwhelmed with how much that spot itched and wanting to rub back against whatever roughness he could find to that hand.

“Crowley, my darling boy... How often do you shed?”

“Shed what?” Crowley asked before he could really process what should have been becoming obvious.

“You know... Shed... To um....” Aziraphale gestured as if to indicate becoming larger, but he did not know of Crowley grew, and Crowley could not see what he was doing anyway.

Crowley was a little in his own head at the moment.

“Oh but of course you've been... So tired, and you've lost your appetite and you've been... Well you've been moulting, a little, and downright lethargic...”

“Lethargic?” Crowley repeated, in offence, “I'm not lethargic. I'm er-relaxing.” he insisted.

He was allowed to accuse himself of lethargy, but this seemed rude.

“Oh darling, we both know almost none of what you've been doing over the past year quite qualifies as - _relaxing_ \- in bed and sleeping a lot or not... You've been, well, you've been just tied in anxious knots.”

“Haven't.” he lied, weakly, quietly and unconvincing to anyone.

“Why didn't you tell me? I've been so worried-”

“Tell you? How was I supposed to tell you?” he protested though his worried scolding.

“That you're shedding that you-” they both stopped on the same word, “You didn't know? Hasn't this happened before?” Aziraphale asked, now seeming a bit more concerned again.

“What? All my skin just deciding to...” he gestured around making an unpleasant face, “No. Not... Not without being a snake for long enough, I must...” he thought it must have happened before, “Snakes shed.” he reasoned, distracted with searching his memories for ever actually squirming out of his skin, rather than just feeling the need to.

He quickly seemed to be approaching that line that went beyond embarrassment, looking like he wanted to fold himself away out of sight, but light strokes and touches seemed to keep his attention coaxed back outward and on the present.

“But not like _this_.” he concluded, at least coming to a firm conclusion, even if the bits leading up to it were still a bit hazy.

He was sure he had never shed like this before, not in any way that affected his human form. On the other hand, he did not normally spend so much time shifting between being a snake, being human and this odd half-state he always seemed to end up stuck in.

“Well... Do you feel alright... Otherwise, I mean?” he asked, still stroking gently at his cheek in a way that was quickly sapping him of any real distress.

“Feel a lot better if I could see you.” he grumbled, “'Knew what why this was happening...” he hissed at his tail directly.

“Oh sweetheart... Let's... Let's get you another nice bath and get you all... All fixed up?” he suggested.

“A bath?” he asked testily.

Another bath at a time like this.

Of course, he knew water helped and the logic was obvious, but he was a little off-balance at the moment and a little caught up reacting, so it would be an appropriate kindness to excuse his momentary lapses. In fact, it had probably been the good soak the day before that had helped him along this far.

“Well... If it isn't too insensitive...” he waited a moment to see if there would be protest, “Usually a good soak with the right things is considered very helpful.”

“For petss.” he hissed.

“Oh and I suppose no snake in the wild has the sense _on his own_ to give himself a nice soak when his skin gets too tight?” Aziraphale shot back, harsher than he meant to.

Crowley turned red.

“Oh ffine... What does the resident snake exssspert ssugesst thhen?”

“Oh...” Aziraphale softened and went back to fussing over him, “I'm sorry darling...”

Aziraphale was ready to detail exactly what he was sorry for, but Crowley had already brushed it off, taking his hand from against his cheek to kiss his palm.

“Don't be sorry, angel.” he mumbled from behind his hand.

“No it was insensitive and I-”

“No.” he said, kissing his hand again, “You're -trying- to take care of me... I'm... Being sensitive.”

“Oh that's perfectly understandable.” he cooed, “... But you'll let me then?”

“Let you what?” he asked too quietly, now hiding behind his hand, everything but his eyes which could not really be too expressive just at the moment anyway.

“Take care of you?” he offered, stroking his cheek.

Crowley could not really blush any more than he was already.

“Aziraphale..” he complained instead, too quiet.

His skin felt hot, but also stuck under an itchy film, and sticking in too many places.

“Really, angel, what do you suggest?” he asked, swallowing something that was never really pride.

He would have a hard enough time trying to change shape, and he was used to being able to see. If he really focused he might be able to miracle some of this away, but that had not worked thus far on any of his other symptoms for long, and he did not want to just end up re-starting this whole process. It was something his body -his body that was not just a corporation- seemed to need to go through the motions of, and he hoped that would put it behind him. He did not want to say he needed the help, but it would be a far sight more pleasant than dealing with it on his own, if he could ignore the uncomfortable heat in his skin.

“Well, you like baths don't you? It's not such a bad way to spend a day, and this is as good an excuse as any...” he stroked his cheek, but now also his hair, and straightened his pyjama shirt, which he could not see being terribly out of place, “Not that we need those any more.”

Crowley nodded subtly, seeming to concede on all points.

“A bath, then, perhaps with something more appropriate...”

“Like?” Crowley sighed and shook his head, even as he tilted it, resigned to entertaining this, and not wanting to actually make an issue of being told he somehow did not own appropriate products for himself.

“Something much more gentle than what you have here... For your eyes...” he said, and Crowley knew he was gazing into them, trying to see him through the fog, “And... And perhaps a touch of of tree oil, but not enough to sting.. and something conditioning, but not oily...” he fussed.

Crowley could not see him physically at the moment, but he knew what he looked like, worrying over him, and he could not help but smile a little.

“Summon anything you'd like, angel.”

“Oh heaven's no.” he said, “No, I wouldn't know how to get the proportions right, and it's very important to, you see... and I'd want you to smell it and tell me if it seems objectionable in any way...”

Maybe it was force of habit at this point. Aziraphale trying to get him to go to a shop with him. All week, once a day he tried to talk him into it, any shop, subtly, but this seemed quite genuine and convincing as far as his half-hearted arguments had gone. At least he had not started throwing around terms like 'Knick-Knacking' this time.

“Then we'll... Nip down to a shop and grab something, then.” he said, perhaps over-eager to prove he was still independent and wiggling to the edge of the chair.

“Oh, I suppose that could be alright... If you can manage.”

“If I can manage.” Crowley muttered, either defensively or to himself, it was too quiet to quite tell.

There was a posh little bath shop not too far off that sold all sorts of high end and over-priced body products that touted being natural. He was sure they would find something there. Crowley did manage to summon his knees back underneath him and stand, fix his clothes, mild and poorly placed annoyance helping to balance out whatever else he was feeling.

~*~

It was not so unusual seeming, to walk arm in arm, and people were used to seeing him in such dark glasses they probably assumed he had some vision problems as it was. He did not, in short, feel overly vulnerable, or like he had to cling too close to him. He knew Aziraphale would not let him run into anything, easier to accomplish when they were on foot.

He even found he had a sense of where they were going and was able to point out when they were passing the shop, their shop, home. It became a kind of game, he could point out what he actually had a sense of and Aziraphale would tell him he got it right. It was almost hard, actually, not to think about the brief time he had been Joseph, clinging to his arm this way, only now his inability to make out his surroundings was far worse and entirely too real.

He could lead Aziraphale, more or less to the shop he was thinking of because he could smell it from blocks away. Aziraphale made sure he did not trip on anything or walk out into traffic. The moment they got in they seemed to be of the same mind, beelining to the least heavily scented corner of the shop full of washes and creams and candles and things that all touted being gentle enough you could use them on a baby, whether or not that seemed doubtful. At least that was what Aziraphale said was written on the display. Crowley made a face.

He did not at all approve, in various ways, of this insistence that he really needed something like this, but if he -was- going to be submerging himself in something completely, eyes and all, he did not really want to insist on something that was actually soap, was harsh, that had sulphates, or that would sting. Aziraphale was not being too overbearing or embarrassing about it either. He was so unobtrusive in public, and kept that up even now, only fussing over him subtly, in that same way that had everyone immediately take them for a couple, which of course, Crowley leaned into.

If anything it was Crowley who seemed quite bashfully tickled to be shopping for household products with his partner. It was moments like this that made it so very clear that Crowley's embarrassment and bashfulness came entirely from his own internalized judgements. He could not care less what angels or demons thought, nor the general public, and he simply could not think Aziraphale would judge him, not by now, and he had such an open dialogue with Her, even if he thought it was futile, and that only left one person in all of existence he could possibly be judged by; himself.

To look at them you would see a tall man in dark clothes, entertaining his soft boyfriend as he went on enthusiastically and affectionately, starting to grin to himself sappily as if, despite his every attempt to seem cool and unaffected, he was terribly in love and could not help himself. That impression would be entirely accurate, the only exception being that they were not really men.

So he smelled everything that was offered up to his judgement, and tried his best to have a useful opinion. It was for himself after all. He was just finding his opinions amounted mostly to deciding something smelled too strongly, and that he preferred the mild ones. They also weren't looking for soap as much as a conditioning soak, which is less common of a product, but which this shop seemed to have plenty of. It sold an entire gradient of products ranging from what was effectively soap to what was effectively lotion, labelled with all sorts of pretences about very particular uses you needed each one individually for.

He hated the pure fabricated sense of necessity and all the pretence, mostly angry he had not thought of it first. This whole capitalist machine was something the humans had done to themselves. All the advertisements and the messaging, the _propaganda,_ when you got down to it, seeping in and convincing people to tie having certain products inextricably to ideas of success and identity. It made their lives so much harder and more wasteful than they needed to be, and his old job a whole lot easier. Now though, he mostly hated so many strong and distinct smells, that he could very much taste, all crowded into the same shop, regardless of how 'natural' they were. It was a kind of sensory overload he found particularly unpleasant when his keen sense of smell was all he had left.

Mostly after an hour or so he was smelling anything he was asked to on reflex alone, and ready to accept anything in the store that meant they could go back to their flat and he could crawl out of his skin in peace, with company of course, just to escape the itching. It was about at that time Aziraphale seemed to find exactly what he was looking for, with an impressively short ingredient list that consisted primarily of natural oils, which Crowley found smelled both mild and quite pleasant, if you were into that kind of thing. He seemed to think it was ideal, and so that was what they got.

Crowley thought, this should be one of those things that made him feel very vulnerable. In theory he very much could, and he was certainly trying not to process just how embarrassing this was, in so many ways, but he felt safe with Aziraphale.

He supposed it stood to reason he seemed so relieved. No longer was this evidence that he might be terribly ill or that something was very wrong, it was now something that seemed logical enough. He knew what to do about it, had studied for it, kind of literally. Now it was another opportunity to do something nice, something to take care of him, to keep him company and make sure he had someone to make sure he was okay.

Indeed, Aziraphale was relieved to finally indulge the little voices in his ear whispering this way and that about all the things he could do that Crowley would probably enjoy. He thought of things that would make him blush or sigh, melt into him or lose his train of thought, and instead of having to tell himself not to, that he was not allowed, he could consider which of them were appropriate suggestions that Crowley would be comfortable with.

As much as Crowley was not used to his wants or needs being dragged out and attended to, it certainly seemed to suit Aziraphale quite well, getting to provide love and comfort when he needed it, getting to make a point of doing so, go through the actual motion of showing and practising love, not just feeling it. So, Crowley supposed this was not all bad, then. He could live with the way his skin burned and threatened to make his body into a traitor.

Maybe, if he _had_ felt more vulnerable or more exposed, he would have actually thought to check if they were being observed.

~*~


	14. Playing with fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Did not quite get all the way to where I thought I would by this update, but the next chapter should practically write itself at this point. I will update the tags presently... But still, lots of developments!
> 
> I feel like everything here is very well set up, but just in case, I've decided to put some chapter warnings in the end note.

~*~

Crowley, when she was associating with the right people, had heard this warning a thousand times. Never let your guard down. Specifically though, never right when you get to your door. People always did that, right when they got to the door of their house or car, they felt like they had already arrived and relaxed. She had been told by older looking women countless times not to fall into that trap, that it was when people slipped up and left themselves the most vulnerable. Be on your guard then _especially_ , they had said.

So he should have known better now. He should have been wary that passing by the shop, that being just outside of a place he considered to be so safe would give him a false sense of security, that passing through such a familiar place was when others would know he could be caught the most unaware. In the buildings there was plausible doubt that they could have set up traps, but not so much out on the street.

Maybe, if he had kept remembering to check if they were being observed, if he had not become so distracted, he would have seen this coming besides, would have felt the eyes on him the way he should have. It was generally hard, for most people to have celestial vision land on them and not be profoundly aware of being seen in a way like no other, but he had been incredibly and unbelievably distracted at various points, and -he supposed- it was a little different when you yourself were also a celestial.

His heart sank at the first prickle of his hair standing on end, the first sign that lightning was about to strike.

“Ahhsssssshit!” Crowley was already cursing as they heard the crash, wooshing and the ruffling of wings.

Aziraphale's hand gripped his tightly and he gripped back like they were already trying to tear them apart even as he kept cursing, himself, or the situation, he had not processed that yet, there was no time.

He was already trying to tuck Aziraphale behind him, as best he could, as figures appeared all around them. Even blind and scared his first instinct was to put himself bodily between him and danger. Aziraphale's heart made a painful little flutter.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit.” he hissed, and yelled, as he felt Aziraphale's back meet his softly.

He was spiralling through realizations of how far he had slipped, how they had let their guard down and stopped checking, stopped being careful what they said without knowing they were truly unobserved. Now they were flanked all around, angel and demon alike. Crowley did not need to see to know who it was, his other senses were keen enough, their scent overpowering and unwelcome. He smelled sulphurous flames still receding and the sharpness of burning air and ozone. The lightning and heat seemed to have done something tangible to upset the atmosphere because the air suddenly felt cool and light, and he got the distinct impression of storm clouds gathering. That was not really supposed to happen.

“No no no no no. Not here, not now.” he pleaded with an unhearing universe, at least, that what he told himself he was pleading with.

They did not even bother greeting their respective officials, not with anything more than a flinching smile, or a grimace that attempted to be a polite smile, and certainly not by daring to say anything to give away anything they might not already know. Static prickled at his palm.

They had them surrounded but were holding their position for the moment, apparently they wanted to taunt them, or maybe they were not as certain of themselves as they would like. Crowley waited for them to give away more of what purpose they had rallied themselves to.

“ _Nasty_ trick you pulled.” Gabriel started off by saying.

It was a great start to a conversation, really, especially this one. Aziraphale might have whispered something profane just loud enough that he could hear it.

Crowley could already tell Gabriel was wearing his viciousness right on the surface. He heard Hastur practically hyperventilate nearby. Of course the smug bastard had come to gloat. Beelzebub he actually had never had a problem with, not directly, and not until recently, not until all of hell had collectively decided Crowley was actually a problem and needed to be punished. The one who had it out for him personally was Hastur, always had, but his unseeing eyes skipped his direction entirely, trying to settle as threateningly as possible on Gabriel. Easy to do when he was being such a pretentious asshole about taunting them.

Similarly, he could not see that Aziraphale was busy giving a cold look to whoever seemed to be glowering at Crowley the strongest. Beezlebub, unnoticed, already seemed bored with the situation, rolling their eyes.

“At least, that's what we -thought- we heard you say.”

He spread his hands and made a show of looking around at his entourage.

Crowley was constantly surprised to new extents by just how much they were like a clique of teenaged mean-girls.

“ 'Sort out, all that _business_ , with the _warding_ before they figure out the _trick we pulled'_... I believe it was.” he said and Crowley knew he was making a stupid face, even though he could not see it.

He felt Aziraphale's shoulders slump slightly. Those had been his words. They had been spoken in private. In their _bed_ if he remembered correctly. He felt himself starting to shake.

“Yezzz, Thze _Warding_...” Beezlebub added with a hint of interest, skilfully leaving the rest implied.

The warding that might hide them for good, that they had not sorted out yet. The trick they pulled to get them off their backs, that they knew about now. Gabriel was not so subtle.

“Yes, something about being able to make yourselves invisible to us...” he went on pretentiously.

“Bet you wish you had sorted all that baggage out a bit faster now.” Hastur added, though Gabriel ignored he had spoken.

This was a nightmare. This was surely a nightmare and he would wake up to a very concerned angel coaxing him back to calmness. The hand clutching his felt real enough.

“You didn't -actually- think we would just let you get away with that?” he went on, advancing.

“So you can run off and hide together.” Uriel, Crowley was sure.

“After everything you've done.” And _Michael_ too.

Maybe they were not so certain of themselves. Surely it should not actually take this many people to drag them in, surely they did not warrant this kind of personal attention. Unless, they had doubts.

“And everything we've had to see.” Sandalphon added, helpfully.

They all seemed to be feeling increasingly assured, because they were all slowly advancing now, closing in, even as the sky rumbled. He did not like that the sky seemed so cooperative to their intimidation, it was not supposed to actually do that. It made this all seem like some set up to a cruel joke. He would wonder what he had done to call this down on their heads, but he was sure he had done something.

Crowley tried to gauge whether he had it in him to freeze time for very long and if it could buy them the opportunity for anything. He was not sure he could with all of them actively expecting it and even if he did, he would run out of steam eventually, fairly quickly actually, and there was nowhere they could hide, not now that the focus was so directly on them. He did not think he could hold it long enough for them to muddle through any spell-work.

He hoped Aziraphale could not feel that he was shaking, somewhere in his chest, rage and frustration, which he _was_ acknowledging, and fear, which he was not. Everyone else seemed to be though, advancing on them in such a way that Crowley was forced to awareness of how close Hastur was getting, and -he imagined- that was leaving Aziraphale with a similar problem.

Hastur was grinning. He could feel it, hear it it his voice, but also smell it, he was too close. Crowley's stomach was turning.

“You don't look so well.” he said gleefully.

Crowley, now an odd colour very close to white, even grey where the ghost of scales started to show through, tried not to just openly hiss at him. He felt absolutely powerless. He had no idea how they would get out of this. He was not sure they would. He tried to be an optimist, but this was a little overwhelming for him, all at once. He had to think of something.

“I told you it would catch up with you someday.” he hiccuped an excited breath, “Imagine, a demon, lusting after an _angel_...” he clicked his tongue in disapproval.

Hastur had always been nasty, and far too eager to threaten or torture him personally, both in the sense of doing it himself and of wanting to torture him in particular. He had been the first to be suspicious of him and the first to threaten him into compliance. He had thought he was bad before, but it seemed maybe Ligur had tempered him some, because without him he seemed outright unhinged. Crowley still had to tell himself he did not feel bad about that.

Of course, his ambiguous word-choice could not have been worse, in this instance. The real implications of what he was referring to were bad enough.

“Stop.” Crowley said, not able to actually make eye-contact.

He could smell his grin widening.

“That is, unless... Oh that's _precious_ -”

“Sshhut up.” Crowley hissed, already knowing where he was going with this.

“ _That_ isn't why you-” he cut himself off hyperventilating slightly with laughter, before Crowley could even find the traction to try to interrupt him again.

His hand felt hot in its grip on Aziraphale's.

“You have no idea what we have planned for you... The both of you.” Hastur conceded to save the bulk of the taunting for later.

They would surely be used to torture each other now. Neither of their former sides were very creative, but if they had been watching them long enough, they had probably gotten some ideas. Aziraphale would have to hear everything they could pick at or drag up to taunt him. He could not even imagine what he would be forced to watch.

Crowley did just hiss at him now.

“Yes, let's get on with that, shall we?” Gabriel asked, loudly, trying to draw Aziraphale's attention back to him, and failing to address him directly because he was clearly preoccupied.

He looked like he was going to give his vessel and aneurysm. Crowley could not see it, but he could hear it in his voice.

What Aziraphale was preoccupied with was wrapping his wing strictly around him, forcing Hastur back a pace, though it did not help with the smell of his continued humour. The more he was being forced to acknowledge Gabriel's approach, the more his ethereal eyes were starting to open.

In fact, Aziraphale's mind was surprisingly quiet, all but for a slow crash into absolute certainty about the reality of the situation and a kind of calm rage that came with it.

“We were just going to kill you, get it over with, You know? But after that stunt you pulled? Well, we decided it would take a little more than that to... Make an example out of you.” he prattled on, spreading his hands.

Crowley was going to punch him one day. It would happen. It would be as inadvisable as any action could be, but he would do it anyway. Now was starting to look like a good day for it, actually.

“Now we can't do the torturing ourselves, we're _angels_ , after all, but they can.” he pointed towards the plethora of demons, as if sharing a fun secret.

“And we can't trust demons, we'd have to make sure someone was keeping an eye on you.” Sandalphon interjected.

“And, Aziraphale... You're going to want to tell us if you've pulled another one of your little switches... Yes, yes, we figured it out... Because if you -don't- tell us, it all might be over a little faster than any of us would want... And who knows, after a few thousand years, we might revisit the issue.”

So the threat was that they should be careful not to die too fast on the off chance they might drag another moment of existing out of it, might see each other through it, even though everyone involved should know that was a false promise, and part of the torture. Maybe they were still unsure whether they could be killed. Maybe letting them walk away had caused too many problems.

“If you scream real nice.” Hastur added, just before he started to look a touch nervous.

“Anyway, look at us doing that 'long goodbye' thing humans do.” said Gabriel, “I'd like to get this over with.” he said, dropping the smile.

Crowley was pretty sure that all the pretentiousness in the universe had actually been Gabriel's personal creation, and he wanted to tell him so, but he was a little busy coiling like a spring for what seemed like it should be a very immediate attack. He heard thunder rumble overhead.

“No tricks this time.” he added as they closed in.

No tricks. They did not have any tricks to pull, no clever plans. They had been caught completely off guard and there was nothing he could think of doing. He had slipped up, he had faltered in his vigilance, he had put off important conversations they needed to have, he had postponed measures they could have taken to keep themselves safe. He was quite suddenly actually fighting, and failing, not to let the tears run where they could be seen. Hastur, in his infinite lack of originality, and probably preferring to see the fear in his eyes, was already reaching out -an uneasy eye on a white wing- to take the barrier of his glasses from him again.

Surely She would not allow this. Surely this could not be the plan, if there was one any more. Not after all their close scrapes, not after everything, not before everything else. He told himself his tears were from anger and that this should be apparent to anyone; even as the world brightened mercilessly through the fog. His eyes stung and burned, tears seeping out slowly through the extra barrier of skin.

“Oh what has he done to you.” Hastur marvelled with glee, distracted, as if by something juicy.

Crowley was seething, ready to leap directly at his face. He was not weaponless, he had claws and teeth and strength. Unfortunately, even having limbs was a struggle at the moment, he could not stop shaking and he was already unable to see anything.

Aziraphale's hand tightened on his, he had already gone from feeling like he was shrinking into his back to very clearly squaring his shoulders, even almost placing himself between Crowley and Hastur. That was when he started to notice that the heat in his palm was not just from his own embarrassment and fear.

“Well.” Aziraphale said, as if to a rude customer, “Clearly you haven't been watching us closely enough, Gabriel.” he said, in a clipped kind of way, a little nervous, until he very clearly was not.

Gabriel would be making a face as if to say 'Ew' or 'And your point is?' but he was too busy becoming progressively enraged that Aziraphale was not quite bothering to look at him any more.

See, Aziraphale had a hard time pulling off this calm and collected bit that Crowley seemed to think he would be so good at under enough pressure, when it came down to it; or at least he would. He _would_ have a hard time of it under almost any circumstance and any threat. The problem was, it was not _him_ being threatened, not that he had the attention for anyway, it was _Crowley_ being threatened, in front of him, and he could do something about it this time.

Crowley drew a shaky breath as he started to feel the heat prickling around him. He found himself suddenly facing an entirely new problem, that problem being to try to keep his knees under him as he was suddenly flooded over with that protective flame of rage. He had been struggling with his knees all day, and -now that he felt the full extent of his outrage in the face of a present threat- they felt particularly ephemeral.

“No tricks, this time.” Aziraphale nearly growled back, letting the flames out entirely, letting them manifest without reserve.

Crowley tried not to melt into it too much, even shielded from view as he probably was at this point. It was sheer brilliance. Not just because it was near impossible to look directly at, of course all he could see was white brightness anyway, but because he was certain, even before hearing the surprised yelps and screams, that he would be the only one immune. They would see him there standing in the fire, coming from an angel, or someone they thought was an angel, unburned, as he wrapped protectively around him, and while everyone else was sent into disorder, confusion and flames.

There was a reason even holy fire could be used to trap angels, if anyone bothered to pay attention. If it was intended to do harm, it would, angel or not. In fact, it was hard to distinguish from hellfire, but by careful testing, on a demon, or by observing its source, because it would burn through anything it was not specifically intended _not_ to, and certainly anything demonic besides. The fact that Crowley was immune to his fire, specifically, was a natural miracle of some kind, seemingly unique to them, as far as he could tell, and everyone else there was currently being perceived as a threat by eyes that had not been open in a long time.

If somebody outside the situation would have a hard time with the back and forth of what that actually _should_ imply to anyone currently trying not to be on fire, they might be able to imagine something of the confusion a lot of demons and angels were all suddenly experiencing at that moment.

Crowley knew none of them really would have such a nuanced understanding of the situation, not least of all because angels who even could generate holy fire were rare to begin with, after the fall. All they would see were the two of them standing in flames together, flames that burned at _all_ of them, everyone else, indiscriminately, but _not Crowley_. Flames that were so tangible he may as well have summoned his sword back into his hand; not that Crowley was exactly certain he had not. After their last hat-trick, this would certainly cast doubt on the question of whether it really had been a trick after all.

They retreated for the moment, near as he could tell, assuming they all got away. They would have to re-asses some of their assumptions at the very least, come up with some other plan. It should buy them a good deal more time, even just until the confusion got stale. He was really quite relieved they had fled so swiftly, because he had lost his fight with his tail the moment he decided that, undemonic or not, a brilliant gesture like this was alright to swoon over, just a little.

“Aziraphale?” he said gently, still not able to see his face, but still feeling the flames, bright and hot, even as they caressed him, and knowing he was seeing red at the moment.

Then his tail was not under him either.

Aziraphale had them tucked into the shop with the door locked behind his back before he felt the flames start to recede. Still, he was on fire, a bit literally, with tangible enough flames that Crowley was nervous to be in the shop. He could feel his wings crackling around him with that same fire, even as he heard rain finally pour down outside the door.

He kissed his forehead, then his cheek, then the other.

“Aziraphale... Angel?” he tried again, kissing his forehead one more time.

“You're burning.” he tried to make sure he was aware of it, tried not to sound too affected, too shaky, or too breathless.

Then he was quite suddenly slumped on the floor, back to the door, folding Crowley as securely as he could into his lap. Then came the tears.

“Are you alright, darling?” he asked, hands shaking against his neck and cheek as the tried to be as delicate as possible.

“Mnf.” Crowley replied as his forehead lowered to meet his.

It was a little hard to keep breaking down into tears with Crowley melting over his lap. He still managed to, anyway.

He was holding him so tightly, as if they might still come back and try to take him away. Crowley indulged this for a while, squeezing them equally tightly together and revelling in the fact that they were both still there, and that everyone else was running scared, that was, after he had finished crying himself. He had been terrified, he could admit that now, he was sure they had both been.

“I'm sorry.” said Aziraphale, as odd as that was to hear, “I'm so sorry, Crowley.” he said, stroking his hair.

“W-uh... No, not sorry, why are you sorry?”

Crowley thought that if either of them owed the other an apology, it should be him. He was the whole reason they had not gotten through any of the spell-work yet. Well, not the _whole_ reason, but a big part of it. That was a little besides the point at the moment.

“I could have lost you.” he sniffled, “All this week I had no idea what was going on. I wanted to take your word for it, I did, but I didn't know what was happening and I've been so worried...” he sobbed, “And it turns out -you- didn't really know either. I _should_ have pressed more. I-” he fought with his voice for a moment, “Even if they hadn't come, I could have lost you, let it go too far without-”

“Sstohp.” Crowley hissed, “Stop that...”

“No, it's-”

“Angel.” he said very firmly, “You can't tell me that every book you've read this week hasn't been you trying to find any information you could that might help.” he admitted to having known.

Of course Aziraphale has tried to be subtle about it, but he was not actually that good at being subtle. Crowley would have tried to stop him, but nothing he could have said would have.

“Well...”

“And did you not spend every -moment- with me making sure I was feeling alright? Was telling you if something felt off or wrong?”

“Yes, but-”

“What else could you have possibly done?” he asked and did not get much of a response, “Do you really think I wouldn't tell you if I thought I might be dying?”

“Well...” he said with more distress.

“Angel.” he practically scolded him, “Oh angel, I'd tell you, I promise... If I'm really not okay for any reason, even just a little, I promise I'd tell you.”

Having his arms wrapped over his shoulders and him raining gentle kisses on his face made the sound of cooling water outside feel much less dissonant. The heat was bleeding back out of him, slowly, threatening to leave him exhausted; when it was done with him. He was glad Crowley could not see his wings right now. They had literally been burning and he was sure it was less impactful without the strong visual, and possibly just the thing to upset him right now. He preferred his current apparent struggle between what Crowley probably thought was an appropriate response to have, and what seemed to be arousal.

“Look at me, angel.” he said, trying to look like he may as well have been looking into his eyes.

He gave up and let them close, leaning their foreheads together again.

“That was _brilliant_.” he said softly, “Is what it was... Absolute genius.” he kissed his forehead, fairly sure he had at least gotten a little smile for that.

He felt Crowley shiver a little, but he only brushed their noses together.

“Yes, well...” he cleared his throat and took a breath, “I owe you by now, don't I? A brilliant rescue...” he almost laughed, just for a breath, through the tears.

“After all those times you've been my knight in shinning armour.” he reminisced with some humour.

Of course it had not always been literal armour. Sometimes it had been a suit, and -on at least one very memorable occasion- a dress.

“You don't owe me anything...” he said, softly, “You've been taking such good care of me, angel...” he went on kissing his cheek and stroking his hair, “And that was the -most- brilliant, amazing thing you could have done, that was...” he said kissing his face more.

“Oh.” Aziraphale said very softly.

Suddenly he had some very direct and immediate idea of just how compliments could get to Crowley the way they did. He supposed they were both a little starved for approval of any kind. He absolutely looked like he wanted to kiss him, seemed like he was toying with the idea this entire time. The air between them felt strained and hot, as if there was not enough oxygen for their corporations to share. He was not sure how kissing him actually helped that, but it certainly seemed to.

“C-can I?” he asked in a quiet little breath.

“If you're sure. _Yes_. A little.”

He remembered how badly he seemed to want to kiss him last time and could not think of a reason not to indulge him, at least a bit, for a moment, just for a kiss. Whatever harm this might be capable of doing it would have done by now, and everything he had been worried about seemed to have been misplaced anxieties. Crowley poured himself into it quite indulgently, sipping very gently at residual flames as their lips met, but soon pulled himself away before Aziraphale felt like he had to.

Crowley felt that tingling, too light feeling in his chest again as the only kind of breath that mattered seeped into oxygenate blood that was not really physical. He felt that additional clarity come back to him again. This was not their fault, either of them, and they were home, safe. He felt the nerves cascade wonderfully over his chest like they had when he first kissed him and this time recognized it as the sensation of his chest blushing and his nipples hardening against his shirt. He pulled back, just a little surprised, and wary of letting it go too far. He did not know kissing was supposed to cause that. He was not really familiar with the symptoms of enjoying this kind of contact, of arousal, except for the obvious.

It was lovely. Crowley was bright red again. He loved feeling how tightly he wrapped around him. His lips were dry though, and kissing them was not enough to massage it away. He did not like not being able to see his eyes.

“Darling, let's...” he started to suggest, trying to look into them.

They were trying to look back.

“Any chance we still have our shopping?” he said, looking around.

Crowley held it up. Adorably enthusiastic.

“Oh good. Such a considerate... Sweet...” he kissed him again between words.

Of course, Crowley had not been thinking of it, so much as he had been gripping to it for anchorage.

“Well, I wasn't about to go and let this get destroyed... Not after all the fuss picking it out.” he brushed it off, “And we're _not_ going back to that shop for another.” he said, framing it as a selfish consideration.

“Oh no, I don't think we should.” Aziraphale said quite darkly, “In fact I don't think we should go anywhere for a bit without considering it very carefully.”

They had a window of time now where everyone else would be in enough of a scramble that they would not likely be observing them directly, but he did not trust that to be very long, and they should make quick work of whatever they were going to do. Aziraphale was slipping just a touch, here and there, into the slightly absent and too-still affect he had when his other eyes, his ethereal ones, were opening and watching.

“I think... Well, I think we should ward the shop. And the flat... and even if we take our time a bit with the rest, we should be able to make use of the two for cover, at least a little while...”

“They will figure it out.” Crowley said, “Before too long, if they still remember _us_ the two glaring blank spots that are challenging to keep focusing on will eventually become suspicious.” he pointed out what they both already knew.

“Still, if it's just a little while... While they're still... Off balance.” he suggested.

“Yeah.” Crowley conceded.

“Just... Just long enough for us to do a proper job of the rest.” he said, stroking his cheek gently.

Crowley knew somehow he meant all of it, not just the spell-work, but everything they aught to work through first.

“I'm sorry it's taken me so long...” Crowley sighed.

“Don't you dare.” Aziraphale immediately corrected him, “Don't _you_ dare apologize for taking the time you need with anything.” he said, a little too emphatically.

Crowley almost laughed.

Aziraphale almost laughed.

“Oh but just look at you.” he said, still holding him tenderly.

His eyes were still trapped behind this milky film and his tail squirmed uncomfortably, as if trying to free itself from its papery flesh-prison.

  
“Yeah- I can't stand this another moment, angel-” he admitted, hissing at the discomfort, “It's like- I don't know what it's like but it's actually just the worst.” he complained, only not quite interrupting himself in his haste.

It seemed his physical discomfort had finally overwhelmed everything else and drawn him back to his current -and very itchy- physical reality. Crowley had taken to wearing longer shirts lately, for obvious enough reasons, and he smoothed his shirt down to make sure it was covering him comfortably, and then lifted him. It did not help how red he was.

“Let's get you into a nice warm bath then.” he said, cupping his cheek gently.

The implication had shifted again to being bathed rather than being kept company, and so he blushed a little harder and did not need to be asked to change shape again. At least he was still his full size this time, and curled helpfully around his arms and shoulders. Aziraphale did not know how he would manage to help him reasonably if he was so small that he was afraid he could not be gentle _enough_ with him.

~*~

He spared a miracle to summoning bathing clothes and making sure his own were tucked back away in his room. He did not care who would eventually audit them now. They would either have to stop using miracles, figure out how to block them from being recorded, or else live with the idea that miracles from undetermined sources would start to show up on records in both heaven and hell; if the warding would not already hide that activity as something forgotten the moment it was not being actively looked at, as it would them. He tried not to let his mind wander to what brazen use of miracles they might find in the future. He was almost glad Crowley could not see his facial expression just then.

He set about preparing the bath as quickly as possible, filling the tub with water as warm as he thought could be comfortable, having Crowley check it himself, and quickly going over the instructions, mostly looking for what amount of the soak you were reasonably expected to use. It came time to slip into it, but Crowley only waited expectantly.

“Oh, you poor thing.” he said, in all sincerity, remembering he could not see and realizing how firmly his tail was gripping his arm, especially considering his grip on things in general seemed to be slipping.

“Er- Wait, I can...” he offered, “If you-” he said, trying to manoeuvre but struggling with the layer of detaching skin between him and anything he could try to hold.

“Oh no, it's quite alright.”

Crowley paused in his haste to extract himself off of his shoulders.

“It would be nice to hold you.” he said, and apparently that settled the issue.

He climbed into the tub himself and settled back slowly, letting him uncoil himself as he saw fit. It was a large claw-footed tub that was actually long and large enough to fit in all the way. He could not quite recall if it had always been that way, or if he had made it larger. It only seemed reasonable for tubs to be large enough to actually fit all the way in, and yet to hear Crowley speak of the issue, you would get the impression that was actually rare. Given that both their wings fit in with them, decently enough, he may have to accept this had not been the natural state of the tub when he found it. He slid down carefully so he could rest his head on the back of the tub, where a rolled towel appeared for him, and so Crowley could settle over his stomach and curl up to his chest comfortably.

He stroked him gently, cupping water up onto him and making sure he was comfortable and could breathe. He summoned a facecloth to drape over his head, folding it carefully off of his nose, that way he could soak the scales on his face without having to be outright submerged. He was still quite wiggly, but seemed content to soak. It was, as far as it looked like, as though he was trying to flex against the skin subtly to get it to detach in the warm water.

He was also working himself into any space he could find in the tub to be fully submerged, even at the expense of displacing more water than he had predicted. If offered his hand he would rub against it, and eventually started, seemingly by compulsion, nosing against his chest and hands, almost like when he could not figure out how to cuddle close enough, but now with an additional frantic edge that was not just affection.

“Here, here, sweetheart, let me help.” he said, lifting his chin.

He rubbed his thumb gently against the scales at the end of his nose until he felt them slide against the ones beneath. He followed the edge along his mouth, massaging the dead skin and scales into letting go. He thought, it made sense that these were the first that would need to detach. The rest already seemed to be partially separated and peeled away easily. He let Crowley push and rub his face against his hand, letting him figure out how it needed to be done not to hurt his eyes, until all the old skin was pushed back and he could see him again.

“There you are.” he said, so very warmly.

Crowley lifted up to collect his nose-kiss, as if now conditioned to, on hearing those words. It was such a relief to see him again.

His eyes itched, but the water was soothing and he imagined that would fade as his scales could breathe again.

“Let's get you out of this.” Aziraphale said, offering his hand again.

He supposed almost any rough surface would do, and certainly there might be surfaces with better grip to them than his palms, but this seemed to be doing well enough and there was no chance of accidentally scratching his skin this way. The face of the skin was already divided but folded back on itself until it started to peel off of him like a long stocking, turning inside out as it went. At some point it came to make more sense to hold the skin that had already shed and let him peel himself out of it at his own pace, until the last scale at the tip of his tail detached. His wings phased helpfully through it, it least, but he wondered how much grooming the base of his wings would need.

Aziraphale did not know what else to do with the skin, so he politely folded it and hung it on a towel-bar to dry. For all he knew the shed skin of a demon was a rare and powerful spell ingredient that only Crowley would know how to make use of.

“Well, just look at you, darling.”

Crowley's scales were the richest and most vibrant he had even seen them, and shiny. His eyes were clear and alert, and his tongue flicked the air, as he curiously inspected his own new skin.

Something was different. He did not recall having keeled scales, at least, not notably so. This was subtle but there seemed to be a raised portion in the centre of each scale now. Aziraphale seemed to be examining the change too.

The raised portion was so subtle he would not have noticed it, except that his grip on his arm had noticeably improved. That subtle difference made his scales look even more reflective, made his skin feel slightly less delicate, and certainly seemed to add a lot of directional friction that he could make use of to manoeuvre. Crowley did not seem exactly pleased about it though.

“Oh.” Aziraphale said very quietly to himself, though he was clearly having some dramatic revelation.

“Whhy am I all roughh?” Crowley asked, voice small.

“Oh, sweetheart...”

“I wass ssleek...”

“Darling, you're still sleek, very much so.” he said, smoothing his hand down his back for emphasis.

“But why?” he asked earnestly.

“Oh...” Aziraphale looked outright pained, “Oh this is all my fault... And I could have saved us so much worrying...”

“Angel, what the hell are you on about? How is this your fault? What else could you have done?”

Aziraphale did not know how to tell him. He winced to himself.

“Well, for a start, I could have stopped getting so hung up on this being because I'm an angel, or because of anything I might have done, long enough to pick up a _different_ book...”

Not that he did not remember what the books said anyway, now that it was brought to his attention. He likely would have brushed off the possibility anyway.

“What book? Angel, if you know why this is happening...” he said almost warningly, wanting him to start making sense.

“Well, I was so worried that it had something to do with... With... Well, I was still worried, once you started to seem... _unwell_ , that maybe, maybe it was unhealthy for you, after all, to um... You seemed so certain I couldn't be harmful to you... But you were moulting and... I thought maybe I could figure it out, before it got bad, before you had to admit there really was a problem, but then it turned out you were just shedding and I was so relieved... But it never occurred to me, and it really should have...”

Maybe it was in part because Crowley got so sensitive about anything implying he that was any particular way just because of being a snake that Aziraphale had overlooked it. Maybe it was that assuming it would have been presumptuous and thus outside his range. It still seemed obvious now, even if it only could have in retrospect.

“What book, Aziraphale?” he tried to demand.

“Crowley... You don't really shed much do you?” he re-iterated what they had already established, “I mean, you wouldn't much, since I assume you must be full grown... Probably have been for a long time.”

That was, assuming he even ever was not.

“Of course I am... Must be... Your point, angel?” he asked, trying to be patient.

“W-well... There are very few reasons why snakes shed...” he stalled.

“When I first realized _that_ was what was happening I was relieved your body was doing whatever it needed to, that it was all probably temporary, that you were _recovering_... I was started to worry though, that you were shedding to um - _get something out of your system_ \- so to speak, like snakes do if they get a skin infection, or a parasite, or are exposed to something that doesn't agree with them, that maybe it would happen any time we...”

“You thhought it was because of that time, when I- but angel, it felt ssafe, sso ssafe... It didn't hurt me, honest.” he hissed and pleaded quietly.

There was an argument to be made that it was beneficial to his mental health, either way, and thus possibly worth it.

“Well, I am somewhat assured of that now... And I was relieved that at least it wasn't _dire_ , that if we had to share energy, for the spell-work or- that we could, if we knew the consequence and if it was still what you wanted... But I- I don't think that's what this is, not if your scales have grown in like _this_...”

Aziraphale knew. He knew, or had a very good idea, why his stupid body had gone and put him through all of this, he knew why his scales were all rough and he was not telling him nearly quickly enough. He actually seemed quite nervous. He would bother arguing that his angel was not some kind of toxin to him, but that would accomplish nothing. Aziraphale would have to see, in time, that he was all around beneficial to him, if any evidence of it could ever be enough to convince him.

“Well then it can't be your fault then, whatever this is, if it isn't...”

He was really wishing he himself had bothered to read up on snakes a bit more. It seemed like useful knowledge to have, about these creatures that were so much like him in many ways, that he had been formed into for as long as he could remember, that encompassed so much of his experiences, and a little embarrassing that they might be able to reveal things that were also true for him that he had not encountered or experienced yet.

He had assumed, as he knew what it was like to be himself, that he was not likely to be surprised by anything, especially by the time humans had any real grasp on anything about snakes enough to put in a -worthwhile- book. Humans used to think that snakes ate dust, of all things. He could have told them how wrong that was, but then, so could have any of their senses if they had bothered observing properly. Now though, he was experiencing things for the first time, somehow, thousands of years into his life, and these books might actually be able to shed some light on the issue.

Whatever it was, it was clearly innate to his curse -if you still wanted to call it that- and could not possibly be something Aziraphale could find a way to fault himself for.

“Oh I'm afraid it very much probably is, dear.” he said, turning quite pink himself.

“Angel, I don't know what you could _possibly_ have to say, to follow up comparing your...” he would have gestured around if he had hands, “ _Energy_ to an _infection_ of some kind, that could have you this worked up by comparison, but you are -going- to tell me, so I can tell you how ridiculous you're being.” he hissed.

The look Aziraphale gave him was -again- somehow implying Crowley was the one with quaint ideas in this circumstance, and he did not like that at all.

“Oh, well of course you'd have no idea, if it never...” he said softly, stroking his chin.

Crowley allowed for this, barely, and then nearly melted off his hand sideways. This new skin was very sensitive, either because it was new, or because he had gotten used to dulling sensations as the other was separating. That was probably a disaster in and of itself, but was also the least of what they had to unpack right now. He shook himself a little, prompting a giggle that he decided to abide.

“Oh, just tell me.” he pleaded, trying to look less like he was coiling around him looking for a better angle.

He already got the sense that he might not want to hear it, but he also did not want to leave it unaddressed if it was off the mark, or not know if it turned out to be accurate enough. All he was angling for was a better eye-contact as Aziraphale seemed intent on looking away from him.

“Well, I can't speak for you, necessarily...” he said, giving his hands a dissatisfied look again, “But some snakes shed to replace their scales with slightly rougher ones when they're um... When it's ah...”

“Spit it out, angel.” he said from right in front of his nose.

Aziraphale had already withdrew his hands self-consciously to his chest and was practically batting his eyelashes at him from against the tub.

“Can't I tell you la-”

“Now.” he interrupted.

“We don't know it's the same-”

“Please tell me?” he pleaded, not wanting to leave it at a command.

Aziraphale sighed in a way that said he had been trying to spare him again. Crowley was the one who swallowed nervously.

“Well when they're ready to, um, m-mate? As it were...” he babbled a little quickly, very pink, and might have broke off babbling more, softly, Crowley could not really be sure.

Crowley was suddenly very occupied with the volume of air directly over the tip of his nose. At least, he would seem to be, to look at him. Inside the landscape of his mind little snakes had fallen off their great machine of gears and coils because the whole thing had become jammed up on a punch-card. Lots of punch cards were filled out and fed into the machine on a regular basis and usually things went just fine.

This time, however, a bunch of the little angel-lights had been giggling in a corner over this one for some time, and when they finally fed it into the machine it had caused an unexpected exception, prompting the whole thing to crash. This punch card, though it may look like a number of holes in a piece of paper, the same as the rest, only actually had one word written on it: Mate.

“Oh sweetheart, that's not to say that's... what's... um.” he knew it was unconvincing even as he said it and gave up with a sigh.

The timing was too specific for a start. It would be too many coincidences not to be the explanation, that -at least biochemically- he recognized him as his partner, among other things.

Crowley did not seem to be hearing him anyway, he just sunk shyly against his chest and flicked his tail up to cover his eyes.

Snakes, the ones in these books Aziraphale had, just got to instinctively go through these motions without being self aware enough to examine them, or have to deal with social implications of what their biology did. They did what was in their nature, regardless of how objectively embarrassing you might consider it, and never had a reason to question it, if they were ever really aware of it being a -thing- at all. The lucky little buggers knew nothing of this torment. They did not have to be conscious of their feedback loops, between cognition and biochemistry, nor recognize how who they were -as people- and their emotions played into it all. They did not have a sense of accountability over their own psychology or reactions. Crowley was not that fortunate.

He thought he had been doing a decent job, keeping this kind of thing to himself until he knew it was welcome, not putting pressure or expectations on him, not letting it be too apparent when his hormones were getting the better of him and trying to encourage him to hurry things along. He did not want to give his body a say in how they paced things because so many things about it were on a hair-trigger at this point and he was set on having better control over himself than that; if for no other reason than to respect what Aziraphale may or may not want.

Now he had worried him sick because his body was set on betraying him in some way. Now the very texture of his skin was giving him away.

“I'm ssorry, angel, it'sss- it'ss jusst hormoness, pleasse don't thhink-”

“Oh _of course_. Of course we don't have to do anything you don't want to... Darling, _sweetheart_ , come here...” he cooed, coaxing him up to tuck under his chin and be held.

That was hardly his point, and he was note sure he wanted to leave it that way, but he could hardly bring himself to specify.

“I didn't mean to-”

“Of course not, how could you? But I'm hardly offended dear.” he went on softly, “It's really quite flattering.” he said more quietly.

“Something of a relief actually.” he admitted.

Crowley nudged him.

“All this talk of nesting behaviours... And you said it was welcome, and you seemed to be reciprocating, but I- It made sense that you might see me as your... partner, but you didn't seem to quite... Well, this is all very new and you can be so _guarded_... I just- It just seemed that- Well it's something of a relief that you... That we're both...”

“Ssufffering a ssimilar afffliction?” Crowley supplied, helpfully.

Aziraphale conceded with a sigh.

“And I don't imagine it would happen if... Well, if I was doing anything to put you off?” he sounded hopeful, “Unless...” we wavered, as a new anxiety grasped at him.

“Put me off? Whhy would you thhink you're doing anythhing to put me off?” he said, lifting his head.

“Oh angel, unless what?” ha asked as if tired of hearing it already.

“Well, unless it's really _entirely_ instinctive, because of something I'm doing and that's why you-”

“Oh sstohp.” he wished he could roll his eyes, “You're being ridiculous.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“Angel, listen, lissten, that'ss enoughh.” he said, pressing his snout into him again.

“I want...”

Really, he felt like he was giving himself away even before he could process for himself everything that he wanted, before he could decide it was okay to want it, and the only reason Aziraphale could not see it for himself was because he was some combination of oblivious and hyper-cautious, and apparently filled with so much self-doubt. He did not know how to define what he wanted, in words, in this context without getting ahead of himself, in various ways. Really it was a good thing snakes did not blush or he would be uncomfortably hot. Knowing was enough.

“ 'Mean I don't mind...” he backtracked his own enthusiasm and nuzzled in under his chin.

What he wanted to say was that he wanted to want him, but that he wanted that to be okay with him, and not a minefield of potential interpersonal turmoil. He was sure they could navigate it, if he did not die of embarrassment along the way, but he was still hung up on how this all did not seem necessary to him, or worth any risks to them or what they had, and he was not sure how to say it without it all seeming very forward. He was not used to the idea of these things being okay to approach or think about.

Maybe human attitudes about the whole thing had seeped into him over thousands of years, but this kind of intimacy seemed like exactly the kind of thing to make it much easier to potentially hurt each other. You could argue sex was just one more thing that people did and that putting such an expectation and focus on it was giving it too much power, but he was already unfortunately familiar with how bringing physical interaction with someone's body into the equation suddenly rendered everything an issue of autonomy and consent, and how that could lead to neglect and abuse for too easily in ways many other kinds of interaction did not so readily. In particular he was familiar with the ways people could be callous, careless and entitled about it.

There was not the same expectation for extremes of respect and care in a lot of other kinds of interaction and that made a good deal of the difference, but there was not a _need_ for quite the same level of respect and awareness when it came to things that did not risk forcing something on someone's body that they did not want. It did not, in short, only have additional significance -just- because people let it, put it on a pedestal so to speak, but because -as far as things people _could_ do together- it was one of the few that involved doing things to each other's bodies. It did not cause harm _just_ because of the expectations put on it, but because of how much genuine physical and psychological damage it could do to someone if mishandled, even _regardless_ of their expectations.

Given his own baggage about having things done to him, and his own struggle with how to feel about his body as something he should have full autonomy over -which was something Aziraphale may struggle with for himself too- in practice and not just theory, he was sure there was plenty of potential in it all for all the small things that did not usually matter, to suddenly start to matter a great deal more, under this kind of shift in context. He did not want their attempts to pursue this to result in a rude awakening for either of them, about anything; themselves, each other, what they were and were not capable of, or the nature of how they interacted.

On the other hand, this kind of intimacy and all the things he thought of as associated with it, had -so far- done more to help his mental state and comfort with himself in the past year than anything ever had. The same potential this had to harm them seemed to be mirrored with potential to interact in new ways that they might both find value in. He was sure romance and intimacy could come as completely separate from the idea of sex and attraction, and probably did for a number of people, quite probably even Aziraphale, but he was finding that for himself, these were -or could be- very tightly tied together. Especially once he got the impression they were allowed to be.

All of this potential and all the complications of his particular situation made it an absolutely overwhelming thing to think about and approach. They had managed to bite off chunks here and there, and even that had been a lot to process, and had still left them stewing in questions that had not been answered yet. If Aziraphale was doing something to trigger him into mating behaviours on an instinctive level, assuming they had those, it did not sit well with him to let that be framed as some kind of trick, as if he had not put in the work, in a sense, in other ways, or as if it was wrong of him to allow somehow.

“ 'Make it sound as if you're worried you'd -done- this to me.” Crowley muttered sadly with affection and concern.

Aziraphale did not quite manage to say anything as much as pause oddly and make a series of uncomfortable facial expressions.

“If, angel, if you were doing something that- That _was_ er- _causing_ this, I wouldn't want you to stop... Just don't want it to... come as an unwelcome surprise, is all.”

It felt awkward, meandering, and useless as he was saying it, but upon hearing it, he was slightly impressed with himself. He was not sure what he had just admitted to exactly, but -that anxiety aside- he felt like it communicated something of what he wanted to for Aziraphale's benefit.

“Oh.” he said, very softly, almost inaudibly.

“Oh thank you, darling.”

He settled a very warm hand over his neck gently. Crowley instantly melted slightly, soothed.

“Well, I have to admit, this is a bit of a surprise... But not unwelcome, no.”

Crowley was not quite sure what Aziraphale was admitting to either. It slipped away into one of the boxes he would have to unpack later. Gentle stroking down his back, that felt just as smooth over his new scales, was quickly lulling him into thinking a nice warm bath curled up here on him was a perfectly acceptable place to take a nap.

These scales were only really rougher if you slid against them in particular directions, and really that was the point. From what he had read a snake's scales were intended to actually make their bodies as frictionless as possible, except in particular directions, the interplay of high and low friction allowing them to leverage their bodies however they needed to in order to move. Crowley wiggled slightly as he settled in against him, adjusting his chin a couple times.

“You do look much better now.”

New scales asides, he was certain that when he changed back he would no longer look so sickly and tired.

“Would you like me to groom your wings?” he asked, very quietly, in case he was falling asleep.

In response, Crowley hummed happily, and lifted himself. He attempted to change shape and found he got a predictable halfway there. Even that seemed to prompt him blushing and tucking himself back under his chin, now in a long under-shirt. His complexion had looked far better, smooth and lacking in the grey shadow that appeared when he was too stressed or exhausted, as if his scales were starting to show through. That was charming in its own right, but it did tend to add to him looking tired by darkening his skin where it was thinnest. Now his skin seemed smooth, soft and free of the worn, dry quality it had been adapting. It was a relief to actually see it.

His wings wiggled and stretched upwards, shaking most of the water off, and finally draping themselves open over the tub. Aziraphale found he could reach most of them with minimal manoeuvring, and he raked his fingers through gently to test it, leaving Crowley melted over his chest.

When he had changed it was so he could turn around and make this all a lot easier, but this seemed to work fine too. He had not been mistaken that everything would feel new, fresh and sensitive. Aziraphale, in some stroke of mercy, started with his hair, making some comment about possibly being able to finally soothe his scalp. Crowley hoped this was the last of the dandruff problem, as if his human body had just been dragged helplessly into the whole thing, as much as it could have been and would go back to normal now. Quickly though, he became entirely more focused on how it felt to have his hands massaging through his hair.

That progressed slowly into a firm neck massage, firmer when he pressed into it and easing up when he stopped. That, to firm enough touches working down his shoulder and back that it did not immediately send his nerves into a hyper-sensitive frenzy. It was gradual, firm and relaxing enough to lull him into drifting in and out of what felt a lot like sleep, which -at least- rendered all these soft and firm touches somewhat numbed and abstract.

He was practically floating in dreams by the time he got to his wings, raking gently through the feathers, slowly getting firmer. The fact of being in a tub of water became an abstraction of warmth, being strewn haphazardly over him became an abstraction of closeness and intimacy. The only remotely specific thing that remained was fingers rubbing down to the skin between his feathers.

Unfortunately, though it may have been hours, that only lasted until he got to rubbing the edge of the flesh of his wings, right at the base of his feathers, right where they joined his back, gently between soft fingers and slightly rougher thumbs. It felt absolutely amazing, that indulgent punctuation to all the stroking and pressure, and that was bad. As much as it was immediately apparent he was attempting to massage away any old skin stuck in the base of his plumage, it also turned his entire body hot in an instant and his lazy half-dreams sharp with pleasure. His wings fluttered, vibrating themselves as if to cope with the intense sensation.

The moment after he finished hissing in belated surprise, his mind made work of the fact that Aziraphale had too, and logged the nearly gasp-like sound, that was mostly surprise and not at all pain, away exactly where he told it not to. For a moment he thought he had accidentally dug his claws into him, which he realized had manifested uncharacteristically, but pulling his hand back had not revealed any mark. The blue eyes in front of him seemed quite calm enough and distracted themselves easily when he caught his hand, ever so softly, in its retreat.

Aziraphale had definitely not dreamed it that time, the brush of something sharp against his hip. He would investigate that in a moment, after he made sense of this reaction. His hand shied away as if he thought it might be offensive, and that just would not do.

“Are you alright?” he asked, even as Crowley seemed to be adjusting to be fully aware of his surroundings again.

He turned red and shot his hand a look, eyes returning to him to hover somewhere around shy and cautious.

“Yeah... Yeah I- I'm sorry. 'Didn't mean to scratch you.”

“You didn't hurt me. Dear.” he said, his wording implying he may very well have scratched him, but Crowley still could not see the faintest of marks.

He would have tried to change his hand back, but it seemed a bit rude when Aziraphale seemed so interested in inspecting it.

“I didn't mean to, um...” Aziraphale said, but trailed off, not really sure what kind of reaction this was, whether it was surprise, fear, or something else.

Crowley realized he was being looked to for an answer as to what he might have done.

“ 'S fine.” he said, apparently too quickly, judging by the look he was getting.

“Nothing bad, angel, just... Surprised mostly.”

Surprise and the, now insistent, suggestion that Aziraphale should take him to bed, but he could not say that.

“Alright.” he conceded, pulling his hand in slowly to kiss his fingers.

They looked, by the time you got to the pointed tips of the claws, like they were made of jet-stone. Aziraphale seemed to be mapping out their shape with his own finger tips.

“Haven't really seen these before.” he remarked softly, in between still kissing them.

They were not snake-like exactly, at least not unless you believed the theory that snakes all once had claws and limbs but slowly lost them, but they certainly seemed to be some demonic trait bleeding through in a moment of reactivity. Crowley still seemed to be settling on how they should both feel about this, so he kept kissing them gently.

Crowley relaxed again, settling back against him. The tender and delicate stroking and exploring of them was mollifying and made his skin feel hot. He never generally saw these things because he usually had better control over his form than this, but he did not think that needed stating. At least, he seemed curious, interested, if anything.

Before too long Crowley was trying, not so subtly, to glance over his opposite shoulder.

“What is it dear?” he asked, his own mind going to his wings.

Crowley seemed pre-occupied inspecting his skin.

“Oh not there.” he said easily, before thinking not to.

Certainly his claws had tightened on his shoulder, but not nearly hard enough to leave marks. Crowley looked utterly baffled for a moment, trying to check where he was supporting himself a bit on his other hand, and that was when he realized this was going to be another entire _thing_ for him.

Aziraphale sighed, resigned. Even with this long shirt he could see the shape of his hips and the impression of two tiny claws just to the inside of them. They were subtle if you did not know to look for them and usually hardly noticeable. He could see why humans were under the impression that some snakes had vestigial hips and tiny claws left over from what had once been feet, that would certainly be one plausible explanation.

“Other claws, dear.” he admitted, trying to make it gentle, though technically the humans had seemed to come to some consensus they should be called spurs.

Crowley went from confusion that seemed to be slowly turning inward, to confusion that tried to follow where he was indicating. His eyes followed a gentle and tentative brush near his side, not quite touching his hip and seemed to immediately understand. He jumped back as if in surprise and embarrassment, trying to sit politely away from him and turning very red.

“I'm sorry.” he mumbled, dragging one hand over his face and neglecting to take it away again once he realized it gave him a place to hide.

Aziraphale sat up straight, giving him space for his body and tail, as much as he could, but letting him address him from closer. For all Crowley seemed to be trying to politely scramble off of him again, he paused and slumped a little, giving up his fight against the curve of the tub. Then he seemed to switch to concern for his hip.

Now he could see the faintest of pink lines leading just to the edge of the shorts. It was enough that he could see it through the distortion of the water, even if that was just because of how pale and soft his skin there was.

His hand hovered close, as if wanting to soothe it, but not sure if touching his skin was welcome.

Aziraphale took his hand and kissed it again, as if to say that whatever he was struggling with was not necessary, regardless of being welcome, now quite pink across his own cheeks. Crowley had been floating in some kind of bliss, but even he had enough experience of those claws trying to scratch lightly at things under the right context, usually alone and mostly asleep, to know exactly what it communicated. Certainly' Aziraphale's stupid books had told him some equally embarrassing version of it.

The scales had been bad enough. If he thought he could keep denying to himself that he was getting aroused or thought he could keep politely hiding it and ignoring it, the course of this day had shattered that delusion. Apparently, having humanoid neurology tied to this manifestation of his body had its own drawbacks and was not the tidy solution he had assumed. There was a conversation, or a few, they absolutely had to have at this point.

“You don't have to be sorry.” he said, very softly, and really only managing to look at him because Crowley was, predictably, still struggling to lift his eyes.

They managed a couple moments of eye-contact before Crowley hid again, in both hands this time. Aziraphale took this moment to glance back at his wings. From the underside they actually looked alright. The tinge left to the tips of the feathers that had not washed away might be mistaken entirely for them just being wet. No wonder Crowley had not started frantically rummaging through his feathers yet. He took a deep breath and sighed again. Really, he thought it would be best for him to have napped for a bit longer so he could have a bit of peace, at least for the night. The poor thing looked absolutely disproportionately embarrassed. Ashamed, if he was forced to pick a single word for it.

“Oh, darling, you can't really control them, can you? And certainly not in your sleep...”

Crowley managed to peek at him from between his fingers, and shook his head slightly. He could move them consciously if he wanted to, but he could hardly keep them from wiggling if they started to feel restless, at least no more so than he could control being aroused or getting erect. He could keep miracling it away or hide it, change his body so it would come to a different effect, but he could hardly stop it from wanting to happen in the first place.

He seemed like he was going to say something but his throat made an uncomfortable whining sound instead. Now he seemed to be trying to politely curl out of his way again, hard to do when the only way to fit in the tub was tangled together.

“Oh and now you're all embarrassed again.” he cooed, hoping that was all this was.

Crowley came out of hiding again, this time lowering his hands to give him an even, if slightly accusing look. He moved tentatively towards him.

“You're enjoying this too much.” he muttered, thinking it was better than the alternative, slowly moving closer.

This really was, on its surface, adorable, but he was also very much concerned about everything it entailed, psychologically. 'Enjoying' was the wrong word. He sighed.

“Of course not.” he scolded, too lightly to count, “Not that you're all turned around about this, dear.” he said, offering his hand.

Crowley took it slowly, as if making sure he really meant it.

He wanted to go back to holding him securely, comforting and reassuring him, but he did not think just pulling him back in was a good way to accomplish that.

“Not that you're so uncomfortable.” he said, very slowly guiding his hand up to kiss it again.

“Am not.” he said, as if claiming it might make it true.

It was very clear he was uncomfortable with his own sexuality, either because of existing circumstances or in general, and Aziraphale hoped his expression conveyed this. Crowley glanced away again, defeated.

“But darling, I told you, I'm not offended, and you know I don't expect anything, don't you?”

Crowley nodded, melting slightly toward him.

“Wouldn't you like to be held? So you don't get cold?” he coaxed.

If Aziraphale brought it up, he would assure him the only reason he was not a snake right now was because he did not trust snake neurology to be the tidy solution he had thought, and was thus making a very good attempt to resist it. He had been finding it convenient, that he would not get visibly erect in this form until he was physically triggered into it, at the prospect of actually having sex, or mating as he had put it, but apparently his body had its own ideas about ways to coax that possibility out of the situation. Having his tail had seemed to resolve so many other little issues, including feeling like everything was too sensitive, but now he did not trust what his body might visit on him next if he started changing variables like how his neurology was wired to it.

Now was not even the time to be addressing this. He was sure they could work through it all, but there were other discussions that had to happen first, for context if not propriety.

“You know you're allowed, don't you, darling?” he asked, very softly, after a long silence.

“Allowed what, angel?” he asked.

“To experience... Attraction, or desire, or to want-”

“I know. I know...” he said, fingers hovering as if to say he would struggle in some way to keep hearing whatever it was he was saying, though he said it like it was something he might only know in the objective sense.

He said it in the same way he said that what they called good and evil were just sides, really, and in the way he said he knew he was not bad just because he was a demon, in the way he said he knew he should not be embarrassed or ashamed to express feeling or wants in general; like doubt still threatened from the edges of what he thought of as clarity about it. Still, he looked like he wanted to be held again.

“Just thought...” he trailed off, and then sighed heavily, “'Should have tried to explain a week ago, like I was supposed to.” he rubbed at his face again.

“Supposed to? A week? Darling, I understand feeling like you're getting ahead of yourself, but that's really oddly specific...”

“Never mind that.” he grumbled, “Point is, if I had just explained it all then-” he paused as his emotions seemed to sneak up on him.

“Don't.” he said. “Don't you dare blame yourself for any of this.”

“I know.” he conceded, leaning into him.

“It's just... You're all worked up, and obviously in, well, some kind of state, and I... Crowley, this should be _nice_ for you, and... And I'd just like to know what you want. How to um... Un-complicate it?” 

“Just need to explain, is all, I've put it off too much already, I-”

“Nonsense.” he hushed him, stroking his hair, “You put it off exactly as much as you needed to... And you'll keep putting it off exactly as long as you need to. And if they try anything again to get in the way of that I-”

“Mf.” Crowley slipped expressively enough to interrupt him, melting in against him again.

He was not sure where he was comfortable finishing that implication anyway.

“If I ever hear him speak to you like that again...” he said, dark, quiet and holding him close.

Crowley almost laughed, clearly having had the same thought so many times, but then he was kissing him quickly, briefly but expressively, before hiding again.

“Oh.” Aziraphale said softly, reminded again that there were very few things he could say these days that were not prone to getting ever-escalating reactions like this.

It really was getting frustrating not being able to indulge him. He could hardly tell him that though.

A long moment passed in silence.

“Darling, if you don't mind me asking... What was he on about, exactly?”

Surely they had both been mocked or attacked for their relationship before, and that was no surprise, but there seemed to be a story there and something of it had clearly gotten under Crowley's skin.

“That's... Part of it all too.” he sighed.

“I am ready to tell you, angel, I am... But it's not a nice story.” he pleaded with him to understand.

“Well, I didn't imagine it would be... But it's clearly important to you that I understand.”

Crowley just sighed deeply.

“Maybe after a nice nap?” he asked him quietly, massaging at his scalp lightly, “Here where it's nice and warm?” he suggested, knowing he would use whatever miracles he needed to to keep the water from cooling off as he slept.

Crowley finally relaxed enough to settle one clawed hand gently on his chest and wrap around him properly. Just a short nap. Just a little bit of rest first. Then maybe they could put this entire nightmare behind them.

~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please do let me know if you notice any errors. I don't have a beta reader, so I rely on my own dyslexia riddled ability to proof read and I don't always catch everything. 
> 
> As we move into heavier content, I will start putting specific warnings that might be spoilers in the end notes and pointing to them, that way you can decide whether you care more about spoilers or warnings.
> 
> I'd also like to apologize for anything this upsetting happening to them. I mean, I'm not sure what kind of expectations I have set exactly for plot content or developments.
> 
> **** Also nobody died, in case we would like that specified right now. No one actually got burned enough to stop existing. I case that's a concern. 
> 
> I do take constructive criticism too... or just the polite and respectful kind... That's not why I have comments moderated. Feedback on my writing will really help me develop my writing as an author who has original stories and would like to start publishing books soon, so if you're biting your tongue on a critique you think is worth sharing, or if you have questions, it really does help me to know what I'm ultimately conveying, what people are taking from my writing and what might be rubbing them the wrong way. There is value in your opinion, and it matters to me. 
> 
> I don't know if anyone would feel these are necessary at this point, but your warnings are [for practice if nothing else]:
> 
> 1.They rather dramatically fall under attack and it's quite upsetting for them  
> 2.One very easily aroused and more easily embarrassed Crowley who clearly has a complex about this  
> 3\. Increasingly explicit language about sex and arousal and what basically amounts to getting hard in one's sleep


	15. Before we were people

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lot of warnings this chapter!! On chapter by chapter, hit END to read the warnings in the end notes, and HOME to get back here. In “entire work” mode, hit ctrl+F ans search “canoodling” to get to the end note, and again to get back here... We'll come up with a different unique string for each chapter.
> 
> WARNING: This chapter starts with something akin to a war flashback and is really bloody heavy in a lot of ways. There might be tears, anger, etc, make sure you're in a good place for it, mentally, emotionally and physically. Now we're starting to see a lot of the things that have been set up come to light, possibly recontextualizing and explaining a lot of things. See the end not for more explicit and detailed warnings (possibly at risk of spoilers, obv).

~*~

If Crowley had been concerned about having a particular kind of dream, his prayers -if you could call them that- had been answered, seemingly by something like a monkey's paw. Instead of warmth and compelling softness he was standing cold and afraid on a battlefield. He felt, under that grey and bleak sky, like he had been there all along, for an eternity, as if he did not know anything else, as if he could not quite drag it out of his mind what there was before, other than the idea of peace. It felt like he had a body already, but also like he had no concept yet of what that was.

He knew he should be fighting, but he could hardly know where to aim. Friend and foe tangled together into a general mess of flurried motions, and blood. He could not remember if this blood was real, or the idea of blood, but it was there. It was on his hands, even if that was because it was everywhere, splattered on his flesh and robes, and so thoroughly into his hair it would have been hard to tell if it was really red, or if it was just an abstraction that his mind turned into hair for lack of a better concrete concept. He was as alone as someone surrounded by the chaos of battle could be. He knew he was supposed to fight, but it all felt very directionless, like he was stuck observing, numb.

When someone else finally stumbled out of the crowd, familiar and alien all at once, like someone he should know and did not, he hardly knew what to do, even when their sword began to raise, and even less so when they stopped. They were equally covered in blood and equally lost and scared, staring around wild eyed at the chaos, like it had reduced them all to animal instincts that had only to do with fear. He had every opportunity to sink his claws in now, but he could not. Not this being so much like him who had seen him as a person instead of a target and been unable to raise their sword.

They were frozen, watching tears slowly run down each other's faces as if looking in a mirror, understanding. Then he felt a sharpness from behind, pushing him forward even as it numbed into a kind of bluntness, and this being was holding him, frantic, crying more now, squeezing him too tightly as if he already knew there was little point in being gentle, but not wanting to accept what was happening. Then he felt nothing but blinding rage, not his, but all the same. He could not remember being the kind of angel with much affinity for holy fire, but this felt so familiar it may as well have been his.

Then all he felt was darkness, an experience reminiscent of cold air rushing past him, too cold and fast and uncomfortable to be flying, and Her grief as he slipped through her fingers, as if with all the fighting, pushing and buzzing chaos they had made themselves to unwieldy to hold, and he was too numb to hold on.

He scratched at the edges of his awareness, looking for an anchor, a sensation, anything to hold onto to escape what he knew was coming for him. This time he found something, a sensation, warm and gentle, like water lapping at his skin. He remembered knowing what that felt like now. It was so warm, so wonderfully warm. It was the kind of heat you sank into and could not figure out how to twist into enough to just have endlessly more of that feeling; of finally soothing the cold and pain away.

The warmth reached out and held him back, gentle and coaxing, love apparent in every subtlety of movement. The warmth caressed and soothed him, gathered him ever closer until he felt encompassed properly and safe. Warmth kissed his forehead and stroked down his back. He had those things now, flesh to feel warmth with. This warmth had long meant the world to him, and had a name.

“Aziraphale?” he asked, waking very slowly.

That had been a strange dream, even by his standard.

“There you are.” he said, and kissed his cheek softly.

Crowley was still shaking a little, as if cold, and he raised the temperature a couple degrees in case it helped.

“Not cold are you dear?” he asked.

Crowley just hummed very contentedly at the freshly warm water, but shook his head.

“No, no I'm fine.” he said with just the right indulgence that he believed him that time.

He tensed as if stretching and breathed deeply. Finally, he wrapped around him without reserve and snuggled in close as if to go right back to sleep.

As distressing as the dream had been, and as much as he still felt on the edge of shaking, there was too much comfort in being held this way for it not to fade away quickly like the bad dream it was. Then, delicious smells flooded his senses and he nearly jumped, as if he had been snuck up on by smoked salmon, to find that a tray had appeared over the tub behind him, all the way towards their feet where his wings would not hit it.

“Are you sure you wouldn't rather eat something?” Aziraphale asked him.

Suddenly, he was starving, stomach ready to growl as if reminded it had that option. By -some- miracle, every one of his favourite foods had materialized, fragrant and either appropriately hot or cold. If that was a trick it worked, and he let it. He ate until he was absolutely, though not uncomfortably full and sleepy again.

Aziraphale was absolutely pleased with the lack of protest. He really needed some rest, some room to decompress, to let all the stress hormones wear off and get out of his system. He knew that once he became too aware of the passing of time, he would want to start addressing things again, but there was only so much he wanted to let things pile one on top of each other. Even if it turned out that the reason he shed was not all bad, all of this had still been very stressful for a long time.

Once Crowley had the traction he needed to think clearly enough to actually address these things, he thought he would also have the traction necessary to realize he was being distracted with care and recovery and put his foot down about it. Until then, he did not want him to end up adding to his stress or trauma by forcing himself to bring it up when he was still reeling from everything else.

After that, Crowley's sleep had been blessedly uneventful and he finally woke up to still being lovingly observed.

“Won't you get pruney?” he mumbled, now mostly awake, but relaxed, against his chest.

The tray had vanished from behind him and he propped himself up a little. Aziraphale just smiled at him.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Fine... Better.” he corrected himself, “Happy.” he hummed as his hand held the side of his face gently.

He really did seem happy, but he still had not curled back around him, not with his energy, not quite in the same needy coiling, not since he had pulled himself away feeling like he had overstepped a boundary, and a moment later he kissed his wrist rather sadly.

Of course he had already gone well over his own deadline at this point, already felt ridiculous having not told him yet, already felt like he was pushing something too far, and like he was making more of a ridiculous deal of it all than he should, but he also wanted what was on the other side of this. He wanted the easy intimacy that he knew would come the moment there were no secrets left between them, he wanted the understanding they had both been going without and so sharply feeling the absence of. He wanted to be comfortable being really seen again, known, the emotional intimacy they should have been allowed to have all along, and everything else that went with it. He wanted Aziraphale to stop having to hold himself back from all the things he wanted that would just be too revealing.

“What is it, dearest?” he asked, making him want to melt right back in against him for another long stretch of hours.

He was not sure he could ever have enough of these terms of endearment that slipped out so easily now, or what it implied that all he needed was permission for them to become a stubborn fixture in his vocabulary.

“Just... Can't keep -not- explaining these _things_...”

“Whatever it is, darling, we'll get through it.” he said and Crowley nodded, just as sadly, “What can I do to, um, make it easier?”

“Nothing. I don't know... Just-” he sighed deeply.

“Just, listen, it was a very long time ago, and things were _so_ different, we weren't close then and I- I don't want you to think nothing has changed, or- or that-” Crowley went from resigned to clearly nervous.

That was a little worrying to hear, at least that he was so concerned with how it would be taken.

“Oh, of course.” he said, not quite shushing him, but attempting to soothe the slightly frantic edge his voice had adapted. “It's been, well, thousands of years, hasn't it?” he asked, even if that was just a fairly solid guess.

Crowley nodded, then relaxed again, physically at least and rubbed at his face.

“And you'll tell me if it's... Too much? If you change your mind and don't want to hear about it any more? If it's-” Crowley asked.

“Of course. And I'll listen.” he added, remembering the last time.

“I promise, I'll listen. I'll let you tell me... You know, you have to know I won't judge you.” he offered, wrapping around him.

Crowley moved into him a little, with his celestial body, in response.

“Wouldn't you rather be held though?” Aziraphale asked him, very softly.

“You are holding me.” Crowley protested in confusion.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes.

“Not like that...” at a loss for how to put it, he flooded the barrier between them with little golden lights again.

Crowley responded to the little zipping specks like fire with his own sense of things traced out in that electric blue. Then he got a sense of it. He could see that he was not wrapped around him quite as embarrassingly as usual, could feel now that he was writing self-consciously away from him.

“You don't have to... But if- Crowley if this is because you don't think it's okay to-”

“You don't mind?” he asked, making sure.

“Not at all.” he cooed, energy puffing up like his feathers did and inviting him to sink in against him.

Crowley, in his corporation, turned red, but he snuggled in close.

“There. Doesn't that feel like home?” he he went on, snuggling back.

That helped, though the sound his throat made that sounded vaguely like an affirmation could not possibly have helped anything. Crowley did not know he needed any of that, but it helped. He felt safe.

Of course, even thinking about where to start with it all made him feel like he could start shaking again, but that would never be any different, not if he put it off another thousand years. Where he had to start, as much as he wanted there to be an easier way, was at the beginning, or he would end up answering question back to it in reverse, embarrassing and upsetting questions that would be as hard to ask as to hear. At least being so conscious of their edges being all folded in together felt grounding. The little lights evened out to a pale kind of neutral illumination, even as the bathroom had gotten dark.

“Everything was different then, you, me, the whole thing... Humans had some funny ideas about things, hell was just getting ideas about things, _we_ had odd ideas about things...”

Aziraphale was quiet, but some subtlety in his movements suggested he certainly agreed that he had.

“I was, well I- er.” his voice broke off and made an uncomfortable sound, “ 'Just been told that I had better find a way to do my job with a little more enthusiasm, that the next assignment was a big deal.”

Aziraphale's arms tightened around him possessively. He did not want him to suffer too, having to hear about this, but that also helped.

“ 'Something about a sulphurous pit if I didn't make sure one man in particular damned himself within the week... Set him on a sort of course... Don't even think it was about his soul, not really, not more than about everything he'd cause.”

For the first time since it happened Aziraphale felt his own guilt, over the potential of having seriously burned someone, wane.

~*~

1

~*~

He had been in Rome, and Rome had been the kind of place he should have probably enjoyed, at least, it was hard to leave and there was so much going on, ideas about all sorts of things being kicked around and explored, a developed enough infrastructure to have time for leisure and games. It brought out the best and worst in people, but the best was refreshing to see and the worst, well, the worst was his job. He could be blamed for all kinds of wrong doings, if he hung around the wrong people, and that was really quite convenient.

He had been trying to be quite drunk, for the most part, both dreading the personal attention that had recently fallen on him, and the next task that he would be set on. Hastur had, unfortunately, decided to be quite suspicious of him at that point, already, and seemed rather bitter about being treated as a kind of messenger. Imagine, a duke of hell being treated like his handler. No one was happy about it.

This was an important job though, and the hope was, or his hope was, that if he got it done with every appearance of his best effort and of success, that would buy him some breathing room. So there he was, dressed well enough to catch his attention, though he knew that should not have provided any excuse, just well enough to scratch at his ego, make himself seem like a worthwhile conquest, someone he would want to assert social dominance over, not _quite_ fashionable enough -in accordance to the most current local trends- to pass as a local, and richly enough to suggest influence, but not quite richly enough to imply it would be a grave political error.

There should have been joy in getting to play with gender expression a little, but it was too convenient -to doing his work- for him to really enjoy it at all. He wanted to be able to dress nicely and not feel like he was making himself a target, a potential victim, but then, half the population of humanity were also denied that freedom.

He knew the mark's name and he knew his budding reputation, he did not need to know any more than that to know what would work. He hated it already. The only silver lining was that it would not take much at all from him but being there, and so he could probably get away with drinking enough that it would pass by in a haze. He considered briefly, again, if he would rather try to drive him to murder instead, but he was somewhat attached to this corporation and if he showed up in hell without his body there would be, well, hell to pay.

All it would really take was one major slip of morality and rationalizing it away, that it was justified, that he deserved it, that it was just how things aught to be or that it was not so bad, and of course he would spiral from there, ever escalating abuse and feeling justified in it. That was all it ever took. A vulnerable potential victim that they could get themselves worked up over was the only catalyst they ever seemed to need. Caligula would go down in the history books as a monster for everything he had yet to do.

Still, he had managed to feel sick with himself, until he got there and saw that the man was already a monster, and did not need his help. He did not know how that surprised him every time. Unfortunately, he was hit with this reality when he was faced with watching him put all this unwanted attention on his poor sister.

This man was going to smash his better potential over someone that night, and if it was not him, it would be someone innocent. Crowley had announced his presence in the most attention grabbing way he could think of before he realized what he was doing, and -for the first time- felt some sliver of real satisfaction when she had been able to slip away while he was distracted.

From there it had just been a balancing act. Keep him just challenged enough to make him feel like his ego was being slighted, and seem just vulnerable and appealing enough to give him ideas about what to do about it. He supposed he should have been trying to stay sober enough to make sure he did not lose track of him, but filling him with drink seemed to be the man's tactic of choice that night to make sure he was not too much of a challenge, and he could not find it in himself to fight to stay sharp.

~*~

2

~*~

“Drank whatever he gave me, I did... Knowing it was drugged, not caring with what really...”

Aziraphale wanted to protest that he should have been more careful, that it could have been poisoned, if the kind of drugs he was referring to or the dosage did not count, but the last thing he wanted to do was saying something that might feel like a judgement. It would be victim-blaming enough to question what -he- was thinking, but the point was explicitly not to be careful, he had not been allowed to be.

Aziraphale held him so tightly. He was crying, but he listened. He probably did not know what to say anyway. All Crowley could feel was hot protective rage.

“I just... Didn't want to feel anything any more. Not then, not for a long time after...”

~*~

3

~*~

The plan, if you could call it that, was to be absolutely on another plane of existence, forcibly disassociated. He did not want to be able to understand language by the time he was being told how well, or miserably, he had done his job, or threatened with more colourful suggestions about undead rodents. Some demons, he had learned, did have a -single- creative bone in their body, it was just enough to take note of what got under someone's skin, literally or otherwise, and remember to try it again, but _more_.

It was not long before his body became an abstraction that he was anchored loosely to, and when it was happening, he hardly had an emotion left to assign to it. Even what should have been the euphoric effect of the drugs and wine hardly registered. Still, noticing at all just would not do, not for someone like him. He had been so turned around he was starting to believe what he was told, that this is what he was made for, that this was the purpose his body was granted to him to serve, that there was just something terribly wrong with his way of thinking that told him he should have a say in the matter at all.

After the last and most creative threat yet -being forced to swallow food that would want to gnaw its way back out, but bigger this time- he had been scrambling at any thread he might be able to tug at to find the part of his mind that was broken enough in the right way that he could do his job without _wanting_ to throw himself back into the nearest pit of sulphur instead.

There was so much he loved in the world and the part of his mind that was not fracturing entirely told him he wanted to keep seeing it grow. He wanted to be there for it, all of human history, right to the very end. He wanted to find something that was his, something he could hold onto that would make it all seem worthwhile, wanted a reprieve where everything he wanted and needed felt real, more real than any threat or looming torture.

Unfortunately, the idea seemed to be to leave him just coherent enough that there would be some struggle, which was making it hard to be as far removed as he would prefer, and -much as he would rather just turn around and stab him- he was not allowed to actually get away, and he would not give him the satisfaction of fighting and losing. The last thing he wanted to do was sober up enough to be able to fight anyway. So, still threatening a couple cuils of abstraction of distance from what was happening, scrambling for a distraction to let his mind detach completely again, and helplessly tumbling along trains of thought that seemed to go nowhere but leading back to where he was, he started to ask himself questions. That was always when trouble started, trouble or salvation and he never knew which it would be.

~*~

4

~*~

“I messed up.” he lamented desperately, “Angel, you have to understand just how incredibly drunk I was... Drugged... Started asking the _wrong_ questions.”

Aziraphale hugged him closer, kissing his forehead, and stroking his arms, saying wordlessly that he did not have to justify anything.

“ 'Could never understand, what the big deal was about it all any way, why people would do this, would want to do this to someone, would... With people they cared for, even, sometimes... I didn't understand what could make it _so_ different, willing or not. I'd never... It had never been any other way, for me, just- I wanted to understand what made it so _compelling_. That people would do this, that angels would fall over it.” he justified, as if it had somehow seemed reasonable at the time.

“Thought maybe, if I could find a way not to hate it...”

He was shaking again now, and seemed lost, as if the confusion he had been experiencing at the time was clawing through to the present and trying to draw him back there.

“That you could do your job and they'd leave you alone?” he offered, so softly, so softly he barely recognized the voice was external.

It was a whisper, almost as if to himself, and already sounding so heartbroken, holding him so tightly, as if to ground him here in the present.

Crowley let his momentary silence confirm that. It had seemed like the clean solution at the time, reasonable -given the circumstances, and the state of his mind- and the only option he had.

“Couldn't ask myself how to like something when I didn't even know what I did like, or could want... One question always leads to another.” his voice was faltering a lot and threatening to leave entirely, but he seemed set on trying to explain, Would have normally had the sense not to ask questions like that... What I wanted, what I might like for myself.” he said, remembering being so numbed with alcohol and whatever he knew was slipped into it that he felt like he was something from outside reality that just poked into it sometimes.

Despite that probably being a fairly good description of what he really was, he did not too often actually feel like it.

“...Tried to go away somewhere else, somewhere that wasn't... replace everything, everything I remembered everything that was happening, one at a time with something _else_... Something softer, kinder, wanted... Imagine it was different- even if I could never-”

He used his imagination, though the result had been enough to put him off of that for a long time, part of why -he imagined- other demons either came to struggle with it, or never learned one to begin with. He thought of all the things he had seen people enjoy, twist the sensations he was familiar with into some vague sense of what loving touches might feel like. Stubborn grips became firm holds, twisting grasps became massages, gentle and relenting, hungry grasping became reverent stroking. He replaced selfishness with generosity, spite with adoration, sadism with an intent to cause pleasure, harshness with softness, the dehumanization -of being seen as an object- with genuine connection, insults with affection, and tried to think of how he might want to move into these touches rather than stay stiffly still, tried to entice himself with suggestions of what he would rather, until for a few fleeting moments he had a very clear picture of what he wanted smashing down all the emotional barriers he had put up around him.

“And just for one fraction of a second... One _terrible_ moment I felt... pleasure, and I knew what I _wanted_... And it wasn't-” his own sob cut him off unexpectedly, just as it had suddenly choked those thoughts and smashed him back into reality at the time.

'And I _couldn't_ \- I wasn't _allowed_ \- And he wouldn't _stop_.”

He felt him trying not to cry and held him tighter. Crowley broke into the same tears he had then, tears that had been a long time coming then and again now. Watching him try to hold in pain was distressing, but seeing it openly expressed was something Aziraphale was not used to. It seemed like the emotion of it had snuck up on him too. Maybe he had not had the emotional room to process it again -or at all- until now, or maybe it would always be this upsetting to actually think about and maybe all emotions this strong would always be held back as long as he could manage to.

The last time he had cried over this it had been when he crashed unexpectedly back into his own body to be faced with the reality of the situation, and his own inability to focus past everything harping on his half numb senses enough to think. He had been alone in any way that mattered. This time a protective heat boiled up around him and he dissolved into it. Now memories of crying in helplessness, unheard by anyone who could bother to care, clashed with his current reality of being held so firmly, soothed so gently, of angry tears that matched his diluting themselves before they could do any harm, if they even could harm him.

Aziraphale felt quite sick. He had known this kind of thing had been done to him, in the abstract, and in the way you know something that is too painful to think of very long, or even the way you avoid thinking too long about all the things someone is not saying, out of respect for the fact that they chose not to say them, but hearing his account of it was something else. He understood why he could not have come to him. They were only two people who were part of a system. If he had not been sure how he would react, that was understandable enough, but if he had suspected he would fly off the handle, even then, that would have been all the more reason not to. He did not like at all, he hated it, he hated the whole construct that had brought this on them, and he certainly wanted to do something about it now, but he understood, and he reminded himself he should probably handle this how Crowley wanted him to.

He wanted to tell him that now, that he understood, that he did not blame him for any of it and that no one else should, he tried to make sure it came across in how he soothed him, in gentle whispers. Despite this, Crowley had dissolved into incoherent laments that sounded vaguely like he was blaming himself, at least for something.

“Crowley, Crowley, sweetheart, I know I said I'd listen, but, darling, could you listen? Just a moment...” he waited till his voice stopped to let him continue.

“There is nothing at all wrong with you. There's no more reasonable way to respond to such an unreasonable situation. You didn't do anything wrong. It's not wrong to want control over what's done to you. You know that. And there's nothing wrong with trying to find a way to make it stop hurting. None of that was your fault. You wouldn't say these things about anyone else, dear. You just wanted the pain to stop, you just wanted someone to be kind, to love you. You can't fault a person for that, surely.”

Even those very soft words seemed to only encourage him to hold him tighter, shake a bit harder, his tail coiled around his calf muscle as if very afraid to fall if he let go. Eventually, he stilled and found his voice again, now rough and forced to an even tone again, hiding himself in against him still clinging a little desperately.

“Wasn't a person though, was I? Back then... Wasn't allowed to be, anyway... was a demon. Demons tempt. They don't want...” he said, though he apparently required a moment to process concretely what that had been.

They did not want kind people to make love to them as if they were people too. Certainly, they did not want so desperately to be allowed to love in peace, that it fractured and twisted and got so turned around inside.

“What I wanted...” he lamented quietly, “ _Who_ I wanted.” his voice escaped him without resonance, without intent.

He had not meant to let that hang there, if he had meant to say it at all, but he was freezing up under the weight of what he felt he had to confess to, under the apprehension that he had underestimated what it entailed to delve back into these memories. He felt, now, like he had actually downplayed it to himself, when he was busy being aware of the memories in an abstracted sense, but not actually accessing them.

Of course. Of course Aziraphale had been the only person he had ever known to be kind or loving, even remotely, to him. He could not help but think that -at the time especially- it was a really low bar, but he did not know who else his mind could have scrambled to, trying to anchor a fantasy. Even if things had changed since, and he hoped they had, Crowley had hardly known anyone to be kind, and of any potential candidate, certainly none that could act in that role.

“Oh, darling...” he said so softly it was barely audible, holding him closer.

He wanted to assure him that he did have him, could have him, in whatever capacity he wanted, but that was hardly appropriate at the moment and a little besides the point. Back then, there was no way he could have known their lives would turn out this way.

“Angel, I- I- I -wanted- to... For the first time, I _wanted_ to tempt, to tempt _you_. I wanted you to denounce everyone who was so cruel to you and to be with _me_ , I wanted... All your loyalty and faith that they didn't deserve, I-” he scrambled to make his confessions out-loud, make them tangible, admit them fully to himself and let them be real and unabstracted in a way he had not before.

“I wanted to be a lustful temptation, squirming under you and whispering in your ear everything you'd need to hear to justify giving yourself over to _me_.” he hissed, as if sick with himself.

The depths of the guilt he felt over it had been somewhat more abstract until that moment too. He bit back his emotions again, trying to get through what he had to say. He did not want to distract from what he was confessing to by being any more pitiful than he was at the moment.

~*~

5

~*~

“I had never wanted to so completely and terribly do my job before... And you were _innocent_. Actually innocent- Angel- and good and kind and I wanted to take you for myself- You didn't want that... You didn't deserve to have to- All I wanted to do was go whispering in your ear and I- You would never want...” his voice pinched again and he forced himself to draw shaky breaths, as if that was a thing his body needed.

Aziraphale knew he was caught up effectively re-living the moment, emotionally at least, and that putting it in his own context now was probably important. He did not want to talk over him or invalidate what his experience had been, even if he was filling up with protests and loving words that felt like they had to burst out of him. He did wrap around him as lovingly as he could.

The only thing giving Crowley any traction on reality and the present was the unrelenting and possessive heat, and the energy like overlapping wings, curling around him, burying him deep in warmth and safety.

“I wanted to have you for mysself. I was greedy and lusstful and angry I couldn't have you and jealouss of every ssstupid angel who never apprecshiated you, and all I wanted to do about it was wallow in sspite and numb myself down to nothing. I had already taken what shhould have been joy and love and twisssted it into every ssin all at once- And you deserve ssso much better than that.” He devolved so far into hissing that he had to take a moment to collect himself.

Aziraphale kissed his hair gently like protests to every word, but let him say what he felt he needed to.

“You were married to heaven no mater what torture they put you through and I- I tried to convince myself that it wasn't so bad of me, that I could take you away from it and that I'd treat you better, that I _was_ treating you better... But what I wanted- I knew it wasn't what you wanted and I wanted to convince you of it anyway, and how could I? Risk that it might change you in a way you didn't want or- or that it might- that you might- How could I, angel?”

Of course, even having wanted to act like a proper demon he had still failed to.

“Even if all that were true, dear... You didn't even try to... Did you darling?” he sighed, kissing his hair tenderly, voice firm, “Thoughts and desires are hardly actions or choices, you know that... We both remember Rome, dear.” he said with a significance that only the two of them could grasp, even though it seemed his own understanding now required a bit of catching up.

It hurt, hearing him so twisted around about it, and more so, worrying he still felt this way, on some level. The words were spilling out of him as if this was the first time he had really processed it properly, if you could call this proper, or at least at all recently. He hoped that he could at least make sure that he was recontextualizing it in a healthy way, even if it was hard to know when to speak up, or when protesting would only feel invalidating.

~*~

Needless to say, Crowley had been in a horrible mood. He had been kicking himself -for longer than he would admit to- over abstract but crushing guilt and confusion, for the mess he felt he had made of everything. He had spent days barely conscious, and in pain as the drugs wore off, and then crying until he just felt numb. There was nothing left to do but pick himself up, clean himself off as much as he could without literally crawling out of his skin, straighten himself out and get phenomenally drunk.

He was trying to forget. He had forgotten so much before, and he thought, maybe if he drank enough for long enough, he might forget again. He was starting to contemplate if there was a way he would be allowed to sneak off away from all of it, heaven, hell and even -at this moment- especially earth. Maybe there was a quiet corner hidden away somewhere where he could sleep for a while.

There was no place for him here, and it was not right of him to want to squirm his way into creating one. Above all else, he was avoiding Aziraphale. The last thing he needed was to let himself start his meandering rationalizations until he lost sight of what was wrong and right; again. He could not do that to him, not to the one good person he knew. Certainly not with how unwelcome it was. He had spent every moment from waking up on that cold slab reminding himself how unwanted this attention was from him; or convincing himself of it. No. Reminding. He cringed at the way he felt like he was already letting himself slip.

He needed to be very drunk. He needed to be so drunk he could not form a coherent thought, and if he could not forget enough after drinking for as long as hell would let him away with, he needed to find a way to escape the entire thing. Heaven, hell, earth, himself, all of it. He told himself all the disgust he was feeling was with humanity and the brutality of men, and he ordered the largest quantity he could of whatever would be easiest to choke down.

So of course the last person he expected, the last person he could even process seeing right then just happened to notice him, his voice lighting up with fondness. Against all odds and sense, it was Aziraphale who approached him, even sounding happy to see him, like he was a gift he had been handed by surprise, but the adorable bastard could not even get his name right; until he immediately did. He corrected himself, unprompted. It sounded like the name of someone cherished when he said it to begin with and then he had to go respecting what Crowley wanted.

Crowley's feeling about him were far too complicated at the moment, and now suddenly all his attention was consumed with not bursting into tears. Mere nights ago the bulk of his conflict had been how compelling it was to think he might have found someone he could care about -someone who was genuinely worth knowing, for him, personally- measured against the constant prick of slights and unexamined bias, from someone who seemed so frustratingly married to their existing world view, some aspects of it any way, which was hurting and caging them as much as anyone else. Now there was crushing desire, and so much shame he could taste it.

There was suddenly such a world of emotion and complications that he could not even begin to process. Aziraphale was the last person he wanted to see, and the only person he ever wanted to see again. He had to send him away.

Then he said something utterly inane, and frankly, insensitive at the moment. Neither of them had fully learned to interact like people yet. Sometimes he felt like they still had not, but -from what he could tell- that was very human of them.

“Still a demon, then?” he asked, all cheery smiles laced in affection and curiosity.

A demon. Lowly crawling, tempting and twisting, and not at all the sort of person his angel should be anywhere near. Crowley snapped a little.

“What kid of stupid question is that?” his agitation jumped out before he could decide if that was what he really wanted, to respond to the question he was asking instead of the question he was implying, “Still a demon...” he parroted in disbelief, “What else am I going to be? An aardvark?” he finished, ridiculously, even as the anger started collapsing out of him, in on itself.

Just like that, he had been cruel to him, and he watched Aziraphale immediately fold, immediately try to appease him. He felt sick, but he tried to hide it, in case it be misinterpreted, in case it hurt him again.

~*~

“Didn't even make _sense_... Just like that- I did what _they_ always do to you... Make you feel like you have to live up to their approval... That you had to work for _mine_. I never wanted that. I'd been lying to myself, finding my own excuses that tempting you, corrupting you against your will, wasn't so bad after all... That I'd treat you better, and _already_ I hadn't.”

Though, even he had to admit, now, that he felt so bad about the potential of manipulating him that he had never let the focus be on Aziraphale gaining his approval, that then and there he had decided, for once, it would forever be someone trying to gain Aziraphale's approval and not the other way around. From then on any whispering in his ear would be no more than an enabling voice, picking up on what Aziraphale clearly wanted and giving him an excuse, helping him examine morality for himself. At the time, however, he was berating himself for ever thinking that he was better than them.

“Oh Crowley...” he whispered, knowing things had changed but wanting to address this and barely knowing what to say, “You were trying to send me away... Save me from _you_.” he almost laughed at the absurdity of it, but he could not find the levity.

“I tried to, angel, I did... I thought... I never wanted to be the kind of person who would make you feel like that.” he took a breath.

He had, in that moment, seen his own darkest potential and it horrified him. He saw the way Aziraphale was ready to fold, how he _would_ work to gain his approval, the more he acted like he aught to, that attempts to drive him away -despite what they both wanted- were more likely to make him fold in on himself to be allowed to stay. Seeing the harm he could do to him, have him or not, made him feel sick.

“ 'Had just been thinking, it would be better, for you, not to be anywhere near me... You were still so loyal to heaven...” he explained, or lamented, and Aziraphale thought that was putting it kindly, “And I had already gotten in over my head... Thought it would be better for both of us if I just- let you be, b-m...” he broke off, looking like he was folding in on his resolution all over again, tears running free again.

“But then, you... You were so -happy- to see _me..._ I had just spent days telling myself you _couldn't_ be, that you were just being polite, that it was just because you were a kind person... And even when I tried to...” he sighed in despair, “Even when I was so short with you...”

~*~

Aziraphale toasted him, apologetically, asking him what he was up to, a polite rephrasing of one of the questions his approach had implied, and again -for a moment- it was like they were equals. Just two people meeting by chance at a bar. The other question, hanging around them was, if he would mind, terribly much, having his company.

Aziraphale, kept lifting him up to equal footing, kept acting like they were just people doing jobs.

“Just nipped in for a quick temptation...” he almost muttered, numbly, from between his teeth, biting down to steady the words, trying to keep any and all emotion, which he was not having, out of it, trying to keep from bursting into tears all over again in the face of the one thing he wanted and was convinced it would be wrong to have.

The angel babbled on, blessedly oblivious to tone, or trying desperately to cheer him up. His ears were ringing a little and he found himself just reacting to what was being said, just wanting him to know he was not unwanted, that it was not personal, that he was not bothering him and it was not his fault; of course he would not mind his company. One offhanded comment later, Aziraphale was inviting him out to try oysters, baiting him, even. He was trying so hard to keep his tone even and conversational, without being anything like overtly welcoming, but Aziraphale seemed relentlessly intent on being playful and sweet, and he could not help it.

“Oh then, let me _tempt_ you.” he had said, and Crowley knew, even before processing that it was a question, he could not turn him down and see the hurt of rejection on his face.

The air left Crowley's lungs and he thought, even now, he had done a pretty good job of hiding the magnitude of his reaction. Surely, the force of the machinery smashing to a halt should have sent snakes and smoke visibly tumbling out his ears.

A cheeky comment about temptation being his job, as if correcting himself, despite that Crowley was sure the slip was intentional, intended to cheer him up, even almost an apology, like he was trying to tell him they were not so different. Maybe he was not -so- oblivious to tone. Maybe that one invitation was all it would take for him to follow anywhere, so long as he indicated he wanted him to.

Aziraphale had sought him out and was making it very plain that he wanted his company. That was all it took to smash apart the carefully constructed hell he had built himself into over the past number of days. He realized in that moment that he had been making a lot of assumptions, and suddenly felt like he had very much potentially lost his grip on reality. Maybe his mind could play tricks on him like anyone with a human body.

He found himself giving him another appraising look, this time next to something between a smirk and a disbelieving smile. The first little light had followed the path of smoke into his head, and was having a curious look around, path lit more by its own light than the dim orange glow, finding that the floor and the machine were covered in writhing new friends to play with who looked so cold and lonely there by themselves.

He could still feel a bitter bite to the way he wanted to test at him, dig into him enough to see what he was _really_ like, not quite used to trusting, hardly knowing what to do with any of it, but he already felt like that would melt away each time he looked at him. Aziraphale did still tend to say hurtful things, all of heaven and hell's propaganda showing through, but he was correcting himself already, asking him questions instead of making assertions, and his actions absolutely defied whatever those words said. Beyond that, if he gave the slightest indication those words actually needled at him, he would set the construct aside to make sure he was okay. He was neither flawless, nor particularly flawed, he was a person. He made him feel like they both were and that was all they were meant to be; two people who could chose to care for one another.

He could already tell Aziraphale would have a tendency to make the anger loosen its grip on him, make it pull its teeth back out of his own flesh. Everything else asides, he was starting to think there might be real hope that there was someone he could stand to know a little better, that Aziraphale -wanted- to be known a little better, that whatever dialogue they were having was more real and mutually desired than anything he had the experience or context to understand.

~*~

They reminisced together often, but he did not usually get such an open and detailed account of his internal dialogue. Usually, whatever thoughts or curiosities it brought up were limited to Crowley expressing them in compliments and questions, or rather more often these days, questions that were actually complimentary and a gentle poke or two that were actually questions.

“Well, you were clearly upset.” he justified needlessly.

“Yeah, well, that's it isn't it? You just acted like I was a person who was upset. You tried to cheer me up, acted like we were _friends_.”

“ 'Never had a friend before...” he mumbled.

From the moment he realized his mood, he had been instantly forgiving of any snappishness, and dropped any and all pretence about the roles they had to play, like it was a front he wanted to escape just as eagerly. He acted like it, the entire system -which they were told was just how the world worked- was something he could just set aside to check to make sure he was okay. Maybe all of Gabriel's torture had finally worn on him, being tasked so cruelly, maybe he had begun to ask the right questions without Crowley prodding at him.

“You just forgot everything else, invited me out to dinner...” he resisted adding ' _and oysters of all things_ ' because they both remembered.

It had left him scrambling to try to figure out what that even _meant_. Now it left Aziraphale just a little more pink and warm than usual, perhaps realizing by now how confusingly like flirtation it would have seemed. Of course it was just his luck that the next time he encountered him Aziraphale would be in the process of already deciding which indulgences were harmless enough that he could leap into them with abandon.

“But you remember, don't you?” he added.

“I do.” Aziraphale said with a fond sigh, though he suspected Crowley remembered more.

He was starting to suspect that part of why Crowley always seemed to remember things in sharper detail was because his brain made all kinds of room by getting rid of a lot of unpleasant clutter, in most cases, and maybe because he put greater importance on things as they were happening, rather than in retrospect, depending on what it was.

That night he had forgotten himself, in his concern and want to cheer him up, and they had just had the pleasant kind of evening humans would. He would figure out as time wore on that in any sense, looking back, the most appropriate term for the evening was a 'date'. They ate, first oysters, sure, but it was Rome. They ate, drank and talked, and even went to a bathhouse that happened to be open late because they could not think of a reason why one would not be.

Crowley had seemed distracted, sure, but also very willing to be dragged back out of it and more a relief, just to sit and talk with, than he could have even hoped. It was the first time he felt that someone genuinely understood him, that they wanted to, saw value in knowing him, and he got the sense it had been the same for him. By the end of the night of course, Crowley had seemed to forget, at least for the moment, whatever was bothering him. They had both become a bit lost in just being people together. It had been everything he had needed so desperately for so long, and apparently had held at least the same sway for Crowley.

Aziraphale still remembered how he had wrapped around him, not like he did now, not quite the same falling open and unguarded surrender, but his wings, everything on the surface and everything he felt, wrapping up compulsively around him and feeling wonderful and safe, and dangerous, outright lethal to a demon, to both of them, and terrifying.

Not to mention his body-language, something Aziraphale normally struggled to interpret, which could not have been more clearly open to him from the very start, but especially that night. That almost scared him more, even just because it was what most people would _see_. Even at that he had been shy enough about whatever he had been dealing with that he complained when -not even thinking it was a thing- Aziraphale tried to look him over with his true eyes.

Aziraphale had stopped, taking his word for it that it was rude to just go perceiving people so plainly without asking, and had tried to respect it since, asking before looking at his corporation in any way that made him feel so exposed. Tried to respect it in general, with everyone, usually reserving truly perceiving someone, and then just a glance, for stubborn customers and people in general who were not taking a gentle 'no' for an answer. Crowley had been right, after all, it did seem to deeply unnerve people to be seen like that, to their very core, to be made to feel known so profoundly and in a way they had not invited. Angels had no such qualms, but humans certainly seemed to, and Crowley had suddenly become rather similarly shy about his vessel.

This, if nothing else he had recently learned, was starting to add some context to it, especially on that particular occasion. Crowley did not have to admit now, or even then, that he would have let him have anything he wanted of him, it had already seemed plain enough, even if this did something to explain why. Crowley had only ever become guarded when he felt like _he_ was the one pushing too much, otherwise he habitually left himself vulnerable to him in ways that seemed increasingly profound and unlikely, the more he was coming to understand of his circumstances.

~*~

“You saw me writhing and ready to lash out, hurt and confused- and you just... Picked me up.” he said, as if still baffled how simple that had seemed.

It was more than that, he had seen him hurt and for no other reason than to make him happy had proven to him in an evening that everything he wanted was possible, without being asked or really understanding the issue. He had proven that not everyone was an opportunity away from abuse the way he was coming to fear. He made him feel like someone could care about him, did already, and even like maybe he deserved to be cared for. He had given him undeniable proof in one night, without knowing how much he needed it, that the entire system really was just a construct.

“And I _felt_ -” he whispered, tears flowing free now, but not from pain or fear this time.

He had felt something he thought he had lost all sense of, something that started as a whisper when he told him he gave away his sword on the wall, and since Eden had become a deafening scream. In that moment he had gained some clarity that it was not just the lust or obsession he had mistaken it for, that he was still -despite what everyone told him- very capable of loving and of being loved.

“ _Sweetheart_.” Aziraphale whispered tearfully.

“You told me how beautiful you thought the stars were, not as a line, but just because you thought they were.” he sighed softly, “And you looked at me like- like I was wondrous too.” he went on, stilling into complacency.

Aziraphale could not know he had been pointing out his own creations to him and telling him how amazing and wonderful they were, how brilliant a sky so full of stars it looked like entire worlds existed in the sky, and that would light the way for everyone even when he sun had left the world cold.

“And you -forgave- _me_.”he softly ran out of words, eyes full of wonder and tears, staring at abstractions like he was beholding the most amazing and precious thing in the universe.

“Of course.” he breathed before he could find strength in his voice, “Of course, I love you, so much.” he said, and the flames shifted.

They did not die down, but they shifted to something out of his perception. Still he could tell somehow that something was still there, something that made his chest feel less like it was burning from starvation.

“But that's hardly anything to forgive, being a bit snippy... After the week you'd had and what that awful man did...”

“Don't.” Crowley shook his head, “Don't do that, make excuses for me, angel, whatever mood I was in and whatever the reason, I shouldn't have taken it out on you.”

Even now he hated that this had become about soothing his feelings over it, that even now Aziraphale's focus was on how Crowley felt instead of how he was being treated. He knew it was, objectively, just one small comment in the grand scheme of things, but back then it had represented an entire issue, back then it could have become part of a pattern.

“I shouldn't... I'm sorry, angel, I shouldn't have snapped at you, no excuses.” he apologized, probably for at least the third time in their history, for those very words, kissing his hand.

“Crowley...” he sighed, thinking that maybe it made sense for him to be so hypersensitive about this, about the potential of things.

“What I said -was- _actually_ quite insensitive, and you have every right to react when I'm hurting your feelings.” he said, stoking his cheek, even as he shook his head a little.

“Stop that.” Aziraphale scolded him lightly, “It was thousands of years ago and I- I think, well, I think that perhaps you're so sensitive about the potential of being harmful, or manipulative, or aggressive that you've lost your compass entirely for perfectly appropriate ways to express genuine emotions.” he said, squaring up to argue.

Desperate, clinging love chocked the air around him.

“Yeah and I think there's a difference between you holding yourself accountable, and- and thinking you actually _deserve_ people being awful to you, and arguing that- Justifying it for them by saying- By arguing you -made- them because you made a mistake or weren't- weren't good enough or- or-”

Aziraphale was quite aware of the baggage heaven had left him with, and certainly there was a difference between appropriate feedback and abuse, but he rolled his eyes.

“Yes, alright, yes, there's a difference, and I understand small things being part of a larger context, darling, but _Crowley_... You snapped at me once, when I hurt your feelings, in a bar, _thousands_ of years ago.” he said, tipping his chin to look at him.

Crowley blushed and seemed to pout a little. Of course when you put it like that it made him sound like he was being ridiculous. Aziraphale did not want to invalidate or belittle his feelings over it, but he was being a bit ridiculous and certainly too hard on himself.

“Not the only time I've snapped at you... Criticized you...” he defended, outright pouting now.

“Well, same arguments apply.” he argued back, “Crowley, I don't want you to let -me- away with saying hurtful things _either_ , darling.” he said, tipping their foreheads together. “Remember, we aren't playing these roles, where you're always wrong and have to be corrected because demons are manipulative and mean, and where I'm always right and good and innocent and the victim because I'm an angel... And you know, you should know, not all criticisms are equivalent... Especially yours.”

Crowley understood the argument that he had not actually been being awful to him, and certainly in time he thought he had proven that he was plenty capable of treating him well and making himself a benefit to him, but he was not sure he liked this being spun as him not being capable of worse behaviour, or his concern over it being irrational. Even if it was that he was trying to spare his feelings, he did not want them spared, he wanted honesty.

“What do you mean, _especially_ mine?” he tried not to snap at him.

The curling affectionate amusement he was being nuzzled with seemed a little much at the moment, perhaps feeling undeserved.

“Oh, well, if you don't... Well _of course_ you mind me saying but... How do I put it...” Aziraphale mused out loud, stroking his cheek with such affection. “If I were somewhat prone to what you might call... A 'backhanded compliment' as they say, then, I think, you're prone to something that's, well, kind of the opposite.”

Aziraphale smiled fondly to himself, apparently quite satisfied with this description that explained nothing.

“The opposite?” Crowley sighed, still not understanding, exactly, but wanting to entertain him.

“Yes... It's like, the words you say, on occasion they should _seem_ insulting, or critical, but the _way_ you say them, and the _obvious_ intent, is rather more complimentary and really quite loving.” he said, and immediately saw that he had not quite made his point.

Crowley's facial expression already betrayed that this sounded like exactly the kind of excuse he was worried about.

“No, no, listen, dear boy, it's like... It's like with... With my clothing. You don't say I'm silly for liking them, you tell me they look nice, if I ask, and sometimes if I don't, and you don't shame me when they aren't perfect, like you think I'm failing to do a proper job with them, but when they are falling apart you ask me why I still wear them, and you point out that they're old now, yes, but you don't make it sound like you think I'm stupid for still holding onto them, you make it sound like you think I deserve better.” he tried a more specific example, hoping that helped make his point.

Crowley remembered the last conversation they had about it.

“You don't shame me or think less of me for liking or wanting things, or for being sentimental about them, not like _they_ do, and when you question it, or criticise them, it's never as though you think there's something wrong with my judgement or priorities, not really. It's more as though you're reminding me that I deserve nice things and not to burden myself with attachments that have turned into obligations. You don't act like I'm failing to be above them, like I 'aught' to be, but rather that I _am_ more important than them.” he tried again.

All those subtleties, while small, were the entire difference between the world being terrible and his life being full of love.

“And even if you just said something like 'Angel, that vest is old, why don't you just buy a new one?' You make it sound as though it's failed me, not the other way around, and then you offer to fix it for me, so I can have it if I want, but so that it's nice for me again... And you... You don't even hear it do you?” he asked, looking at him more closely.

“You won't even hear how sweet and affectionate you are... And then _you_ go telling yourself you've messed up and weren't good -enough- to _me_.” he said, cupping his face still and stroking at him gently.

“Oh Crowley, I really haven't been telling you enough how loving and wonderful you are.” he lamented gently, and a little tearfully.

“Angel.” he whined, “It's not like I- bloody- _let_ you, is it?” he asked voice too quiet again.

He distinctly recalled pinning him aggressively to a wall for trying to tell him he thought he was a nice person, quite recently enough.

“Do things like... Pinned you to a wall, I did, and was rough and-” Crowley seemed to be spiralling off in a new direction to start apologizing.

“ _Rough_.” Aziraphale almost laughed.

Crowley stopped and turned quite red at the nearly pitying look he was being given.

Crowley's idea of being aggressive was being aggressive _for Crowley_ , which was mostly a show. His idea of rough was wrinkling his collar a little, making sure he was well supported, even pinning him with his whole body so nothing would pull, and making sure to move slowly enough that he did not hit his head, or anything else, and was not too startled. Not to mention it seemed a nearly wilful mischaracterization of the whole thing and how it had started.

~*~

Ducking into an alley from the rain and laughing, forgetting themselves again, they had both heard a familiar voice and their eyes met in a shared silent panic. Aziraphale had pinned himself to the wall, in a sense, dragging Crowley after him and throwing his arms up as if surprised.

“Unhand me you fiend.” he had said, just loudly enough they would hear if they were listening for it, but with every suggestion of stage dramatics.

Vaguely familiar faces passed them by without noticing and they had broken down laughing again in some combination of relief and humour.

In fact, every time they felt they had suddenly fallen under observation, by any chance, they made some theatrical pretence of having been in the middle of a heated exchange, banter and often -admittedly pathetic- insults, as well as whatever posturing they thought looked most convincing.

It was not often, but it was often enough that Aziraphale had already been quite vocal about him needing to be a bit rougher for it to be convincing. He was not sure he wanted him to be, in and of itself, but all the subtleties in his actions were so tender and careful he was afraid it would come off as the bad stage-acting it was.

All he could think of was the plays he had gone to watch where a couple of the leads, cast to play the roll of rivals, were -in actuality- quite close, or even lovers, and were so incapable of hiding it on stage that even the other actors felt compelled to play off of it like a running gag. He was concerned it would come off that way to anyone else who looked too closely. Thankfully, all celestials seemed at least as oblivious as they were.

~*~

Crowley's face, now, made it very clear he had conveyed this with his eyes alone. He was very red again, but at least he had stopped shaking and pleading with him to understand how awful he was.

“Darling, you don't mistreat me.” Aziraphale assured him.

“Oh yeah, and how would either of us be able to tell, then, angel? Being as we're both so clearly messed up about it.” he asked, edging on defensive, but unable to commit to it.

“Well...” Aziraphale said, wilfully ignoring him shaking his head as if to say he was not actually asking for an answer, “On the off chance you do tell me that something I like is ridiculous and beneath me... What do I do?” he asked, though there was really only very few things that had ever come up with.

“... Do it anyway.” Crowley sighed, conceding.

“And do I hide it? Keep it away from you? Do it shamefully when no one is looking?” he asked.

Of course not, of course he did it anyway, gleefully, sometimes _at_ him, arguing that it was clearly delightful the entire time. A number of his favourite slight-of-hand tricks came to mind.

“No.” Crowley admitted.

Certainly, if heaven had its way and if Crowley had only added to it, he would have folded in on himself too much to have his own opinions a long time ago.

“And you sigh and roll your eyes and grumble... And then when you think I'm not looking, you smile at me because I'm enjoying it, because you -like- seeing me happy.”

In fact, any time Crowley thought he was not paying attention, and now often even when he clearly was, he seemed to melt towards him, or -in the case of sprawling out to bask- gave him every last bit of his focus as though he was the only thing in the entire room that was possibly of any interest.

“Yeah well, shouldn't even pretend should I? In case...” Crowley grumbled, folding into his chest.

He supposed they were back to him wilfully ignoring the roles they had been forced to fill.

“In case I somehow get the impression that you're actually embarrassed by me?” he asked, unable to help but betray he thought that was ridiculous.

Crowley was pouting now, hiding under his chin, outwardly embarrassed. Aziraphale hoped he was feeling a bit better, at least. Bickering and insincere mockery had practically become a language of affection to them after so many long centuries of having to pretend to be at odds and after so long of not really being able to discuss how they earnestly felt, after all the years of flimsy denial. He would not hear that twisted into some narrative that made Crowley out to be anything less that the brightest source of love and such relentless devotion.

“You aren't _sincerely_ trying to make a case for this are you? Or anything that night? Don't tell me you still feel that way... Guilty? About all of that- Darling we've been over this.”

“No. No I- I don't think so, not now, not for...”

Crowley found he still could not wholly define what he did and definitively did not feel guilt over, but he was no longer paranoid he could be abusive, not really. If he was full of those doubts on a regular basis, he would hardly have pursued this. He did not feel guilty for wanting him in any capacity either, especially not knowing it was welcome, he just wanted him to understand everything it entailed before inviting it.

“But back then...” Crowley was at a loss to really explain the extent to which he was turned around and torn up about everything.

In retrospect, he realized he had been under terrible stress and was probably incredibly depressed, and had gone a couple thousand years with no support or kindness besides whatever he saw of Aziraphale, and hardly remembered any time before. Certainly, he met humans who were kind to the construct he was playing, some meaningfully so, enough to let him keep his faith in humanity, but it was hardly something he could take wholly to heart in light of everything else and nothing resembling an actual support structure.

If anyone else had been put through what he had, and constantly fed the same rhetoric about how horrible they were, he knew he would expect them to end up at least as turned around. He would tell them they were depressed, and an anxious mess and that everything they thought was irredeemable about themselves was lies put there by abuse, and that they deserved better and it was not their fault. He had a very good sense of this because he had seen how Aziraphale was treated by heaven, what it did to him, and what it looked like from an objective perspective. He saw these things, now, objectively speaking.

“Back then.” Aziraphale repeated, confirming he understood.

He understood there was an entire narrative that had been going on without his notice, regardless of whatever suspicions he may have formed, and that it was tied into all the little behavioural quirks they had run into. He knew it would probably explain every little thing he had been unable to before, would likely answer all the questions he had been told it would, and that as hard as this was to drag up, it was necessary context. Whether or not it was the most efficient way to discuss this did not matter, because it was what Crowley seemed comfortable with. He certainly did not want to _not know_ these things.

“After that night, after you showed me everything you had found that you thought was worth sharing with someone, and we found more things together, after we spent all night just _talking_... It all looked _so_ different, angel... And I realized it wasn't _about_ being touched or held, or- not _really_ , that what I wanted was to be close to someone, to you, and I had that, I had everything I wanted, just like that.” Crowley said as if amazed by how simple he had made it seem.

“I had you.” he went on nuzzling into him, “Have had you... In any way that really mattered.”

“ _Sweetheart_. I love you so much. Don't tell me you've spent all this time worried, deep down, that you aren't being good enough to me... I don't want to belittle your concerns, but you _know_ , you _must_ know, that's ridiculous.”

They both knew Crowley had spent thousands of years showering him in any attention he would invite and raining down little, and not so little, acts of service and devotion. Of course, he had spent just as long sending him mixed signals, but Crowley did not even need to think to forgive him, he just had, and Aziraphale was trying to do the work of mending whatever it had hurt. This was not the time to bring that up, start competing for which of them was the worst, it would only cause Crowley to start comforting him.

“Oh angel, I'm not sure I'd want to be the kind of person who didn't consider the possibility from time to time...”

People, in his experience, who told themselves they could not be doing harm, that they were not capable of it and never doubted that, who rationalized away any argument to the contrary too easily, or who thought of themselves as the universal victims, were the most prone to being unapologetically abusive. With all the emotional abuse they both took in from the world it would be so easy to accidentally project that back outwards, especially for someone told they were supposed to, or someone told that by their nature they were not capable of it. They were also both vulnerable to not recognizing when it was being done to them, not having a healthy measure for it, so he thought he was right to have doubts, right to keep questioning it, understood why they both did, and he -knew- Aziraphale understood this too. These questions, these doubts they were an act of love and devotion themselves.

“I understand needing to question yourself like you do everything, darling, I do, but doubting yourself too much, that's not any good either, is it?” he asked, kissing his forehead again. “Do you remember what you said to me that night?”

“ 'Said a lot of things that night, angel.”

“When I told you I was afraid I wasn't very much of an angel, you told me that it was probably because I was too busy being kind and wonderful and soft the way humans thought angels _aught_ to be.”

Of course they had both been drinking at the time, but the sentiment stood.

“Angel...”

“And coming from everyone else it had always been critical, that I was not like other angels, not formidable enough, made myself too small, was too gentle, too soft, too interested in human things, That I didn't even seem to want to properly serve heaven... But you, you made it sound like _they_ had failed to be more like _me_.” he smiled fondly to himself.

“Aziraphale.” Crowley sighed, in mild protest, as if sensing where he was going with this.

“It was _very_ sweet.” he said, to him as he hid under his chin again.

Aziraphale knew they had gotten off-track, again, and that this was not the end of it. There had to be more to it than this. He hoped that was the hard part, at least, as it seemed to encompass everything he had said; another time he slipped up and thought of him in a way he thought was unwelcome, another time someone hurt him, a time when letting himself want something had brought terrible consequences, emotionally anyway. It did not yet explain the exact context of what he really was struggling with so badly, but he understood why Crowley felt he had the right to know, and he hoped the rest would be easier to explain now. He did not like him being in such distress.

“Oh, but there's something you're trying to say and I'm de-railing the whole thing again.” Aziraphale said, stroking his hair softly.

“Yeah...” he sighed, “After that... My point was that after that I- Even if it wasn't about... Maybe it's that you reminded me I was allowed to be a person... And seeing how heaven treated you, and how they made you feel... Good and evil, what we were told we were made for, the whole... I- 'Couldn't keep making myself do it, could I?”

Certainly, if he let himself burst into tears at being approached the wrong way, that was more likely to edge people toward responding with empathy and risked bringing out their better nature, and that was the opposite of doing his job; disregarding the embarrassment of it. Besides that, even knowing how angry Aziraphale would be on his behalf, even for the vague sense of it he already had then, it had already helped him start to turn his own anger out at the people abusing him, where it belonged, at least enough that he did not feel like being particularly compliant.

“Wait, but, Crowley... He couldn't have known, could he? Earlier he-”

“Who? Hastur? No.” he brushed that off, “ 'Suspected, more like...” he said, though he knew what it had sounded like.

Of course witnessing that they seemed to have some kind of relationship, Hastur would have jumped to assuming lust and abuse, it was what he knew.

“Nah. What he -knew- was that I _wouldn't_ any more, that suddenly the threats didn't work... Thought _someone_ must have put funny ideas in my head about having a right over the corporation I was given. Knew _something_ was up, but never... I'd have never let him find out about you.” Crowley fluctuated to being more conversational, in the present, right before going full tilt back into sentimental.

“Wait, but darling, if you- How did you? Crowley, tell me they didn't...” he asked, his voice suddenly shrinking, “Not because you wouldn't- And wouldn't come to me-”

Of course Aziraphale already knew, he knew from what he had already been told, and by what Crowley had not told him.

“No no no angel, that's not the point, that's- I didn't want- That's why- Don't, don't dare think that any part of this is your fault. I knew, I knew I could come to you, and I knew you would defend me, but it would have put us both under fire from the very start...”

Even back then, even -especially- back then they had each been drawing enough attention from just the wrong people, Crowley in particular. They did not have the distraction of another great war to sneak out from under like one of those tricks of misdirection Aziraphale was so fond of. He could try to ward himself, but even then angels and demons were not above cooperating on occasion and if it was ever discovered who's grace he had used to hide himself, if it even worked at all on him, he would be condemning them both. Even if he wanted to go to him and try to convince him to run off, even if it would not feel like a manipulation made of guilt and constructed obligation, and even if he thought he might agree, back then, it would not have been a real option.

“Oh and you had just worked so hard to keep me from having to... Smite anyone, and you were all twisted up about not wanting to manipulate me, or steal me away, or- oh...”

“Don't cry, angel.” he pleaded, wrapping around him.

Aziraphale let his eyes bore into everyone who had fled from them, but especially Hastur. They were all still there, sure enough. The fire of one angel, or even one demon was not the same as being submerged in hellfire, which was more akin to the fire of all the fallen mixed disastrously into one, burning everything aimlessly, each filling in the gaps in other flames; just like, he supposed, his tears were not the overwhelming sting of all the love in heaven, alienating in its lack of specific direction, like holy water was constructed to be, eating away at anyone who felt truly undeserving.

He would decide later how to feel about them being so -but only so- burned. Now he wanted them to feel his eyes on them, as a warning, a threat. He wanted them to know somehow that it was only by Crowley's graces that he was not finding them all. Whatever they feared he was, whatever unknown element, however powerful, the way he felt now, he was not entirely sure they could be wrong.

Crowley made a noise somewhere between a whine and a moan. Directed at him or not, he could feel that his eyes were wide open, and he could feel the flames, and he knew that if he let them in he would sense his exact intent, but he already knew what that was and he was struggling to process how to feel about it. Worried for Aziraphale and how he would feel about it later, yes, but also a slew of other things he had varying levels of comfort and discomfort with. It was either perfectly natural or perfectly terrible of him to be this turned on, but either way it was making it hard to think.

“You know, angel, if you keep boring holes in the backs of their heads, all the warding in the world won't be able to hide where we are.” he commented lightly, breathlessly, though he was also certain it was only helping their cause at the moment.

No angel or demon had witnessed what Aziraphale was truly capable of in thousands of years and it was likely reminding them all why he had been made a principality in the first place, regardless of whatever existential uncertainty or panic they were reeling from. They would convince themselves soon, that they were not really afraid for themselves, or even for what exactly this all meant, that it was only really inconvenient for causing unrest and discord in their respective political structures, but for now there was nothing they could do but lick their wounds and hope they were not still in danger. It would take them some time, at least to gather their forces and courage.

“Yes, well...” he raised one eyebrow, having his own internal struggle.

He would have suggested they take care of some of said warding now, but he was not about to interrupt whatever dialogue they were finally having and it hardly seemed necessary at the moment. Everyone was still in a state that was either fear and uncertainty -either of him or of being set on him by their superiors again- or impotent rage. The later made him laugh, somewhere, but the idea that some of them -who were never really a part of this wilfully- were genuinely afraid because of their own lack of choice, that was the biggest threat to his anger folding back in on itself now. At least they all were looking away, so to speak, their perception being turned inward, hoping to avoid notice. He would bother feeling terrible about it later when it was not the one thing keeping Crowley safe.

“I understand, then, and now, I do, but darling...” he refocused his attention on him, politely with human eyes, “I do wish you could have told me... We should have been allowed that...”

Neither of them had been allowed to just be people, rather than archetypes and ideals.

“Oh, but you should have told me, about _him_ at least... Someone should have done something about that _horrid_ man.... Well-” he pursed his lips in thought but let it drop.

“Angel?” Crowley prompted, not missing the expression, under his chin or not.

He could hear it in his voice, in the way his expression, and the way he shaped his lips, affected the sound of his voice. He lifted again to look at him.

“Well...” Aziraphale said, maintaining the defensive pout, “It's not like I didn't notice how you reacted every time he came up... And I thought _someone_ should go see what he was actually up to... And he was just _awful_.” he said, remembering what he had witnessed in just a brief glimpse.

“And I didn't know what he had done exactly, and I couldn't really interfere, could I? Not without you being blamed, if whatever you were sent to influence him to _failed_. My side already seemed convinced that whatever he was doing, it was part of the plan and we didn't have the arrangement then, but it didn't seem right to interfere with something that had so obviously been very hard for you... But seeing how upset you were, I knew he must actually be terrible, and I couldn't just let him away without doing _something_... And I didn't see the _harm_. Certainly, my side couldn't have _objected,_ not if it didn't change anything much...”

Crowley, in any time they could conceivably consider modern, was not used to hearing how these rationalizations, or the desire for them, had largely pre-existed him. Certainly, Aziraphale hardly acted on them, but apparently there had, in fact, been ways he could be motivated to do so. At least when Crowley was giving him an outlet, he had someone to bounce ideas off of who could let him know if what he was saying really raised too many of the wrong questions, or was outright unhinged. They seemed to have that understanding, especially now, but there had very much been times when he had lost sight of how he was actually affecting him, of the ways in which he was actually helping him temper and direct himself, of the ways they benefited each other and were better off a pair.

“Oh Aziraphale, what did you do?”  
  


“Well...” he wiggled a little in deliberation about his confession, “I _may_ have suggested very strongly to him that his horse was a source of divine inspiration...” he admitted, though, truth be told, he had done a little more than that.

Crowley looked incredulous.

“You wot?”

Then he broke into a grin.

“That was _you_?”

“Well...” he said, shifting more uncomfortably, “I knew I shouldn't have interfered like that, but I'd never seen you so put off at the very mention of someone... And I had hoped it might teach him a bit of humility... Thought maybe if he discredited _himself_ , then no one could get in trouble...”

It sounded like an excuse to both of them, but he was not about to accuse Aziraphale of petty vengeance, even if he thought it delightful.

“That's... That's terrific, that is...” Crowley almost laughed.

Aziraphale blushed as if remembering being a bit ashamed of himself, but that was dying a quick death. Now he wished he had done more to him.

“Oh but I had _no_ _idea_...” he lamented, affectionate and distressed.

The fact that Aziraphale, with no more context than that the man had upset him somehow, had gone so far, really only drove his point home. It was a good thing Aziraphale could not time travel, because Crowley thought him liable to burn down half of human history if he ever came face to face with what so many people were capable of.

Unfortunately, all the angel-lights had seen that he was actually delighted by his mischief, and had taken it as permission to start causing some of their own. Aziraphale was trying to cup his cheeks and tend him gently, and sooth away whatever he could but Crowley, perhaps having felt everything he felt he aught to have been feeling about it for too long already, was finding his own delight, affection -and confusing amount of arousal- a little distracting. It had to be all the touching, feeling safe, relived and cared for.

“Thank you, angel.” Crowley said, nuzzling into him, too warm.

Aziraphale took the smile he was fighting as a sign that he had at least distracted him from all the distress he was in for a moment, but stopped Crowley from getting too far trying to kiss the side of his jaw. He kissed his forehead like punctuation to end whatever tangent he was on. Crowley went back to hiding against his chest. He stroked his arms and scooped warm water up onto his skin where it felt cold, which was really only the backs of his arms.

“You aren't too warm, are you?” he asked.

Crowley shook his head.

“No one, that is, they don't still? Not now, not recently- If they... If anyone ever-”

Nobody would even be able to ever hurt him like that again. He would not let it happen in the first place. They would deal with this spell-work when they were ready, and if anyone tried to interfere before then, he would deal with them. He suspected he did not have to say that, because Crowley was all wobbly again, despite claiming the temperature was fine.

“No, angel, not since... Since they let me out again.” he assured him, and not just so he would not start demanding lists of names.

It was long enough ago that it felt almost like a separate lifetime, and he suspected he was not the only one who had changed since then. No one involved was _necessarily_ the people they were thousands of years ago, not all of them anyway, and -either way- he did not want whatever that kind of vengeance would do to Aziraphale, if it did not just get him killed.

“I'm sorry dear. Even if you argue you had your own reasons for not telling me and even if you won't accept it was at all my responsibility, I wish I could have been there for you. You've done so much to protect me, and so many other people, and _someone_ should have been protecting _you_.” Aziraphale said, now fully covering him in layers of feathers, shielding him from sight, both in and out of their corporations.

“Oh, or at least...” At _least_ helping him recover, he thought.

“You needed someone to be there for you.” he lamented, trying not to break down in tears himself, not too much, because then Crowley would start focusing on making sure he was okay.

It was dark now, had been for a while, and he did not think there was much risk of Crowley seeing the state of his wings. The cold and warm fireflies gave off all the light they really needed to see each other well enough.

“You were though, angel. It was enough, really, just knowing that you thought I deserved better, that I knew I could talk to you and that you'd listen. Just knowing that I wasn't alone... That's what heaven taught you isn't it? That all you had to offer people was taking up your sword for them? Our bodies heal... I needed someone to care, and you've always been so kind, and sweet, and soft and gentle with me.”

They had gotten off track of everything he was probably trying to explain again, but he seemed to have found a kind of peace curled up to him and he thought Crowley probably needed that calm sense of safety the most right now. He made sure the water was still warm enough compared to his skin to provide a comforting sensation.

“Promise me you won't hide anything like this from me ever again?” Aziraphale asked him.

“I promise.” he said very quietly.

They had run out of excuses, and forced boundaries, and they would run out of secrets before long at all, and then they could just be themselves together.

He wanted to just let him sleep for a bit, but he seemed really quite restless, on the verge of speaking again, but not really finding the traction or angle to get started. He had taken to drawing lazy designs on the wet fabric of his shirt and occasionally tugging it away from his skin to feel the strange suction, and then smooth it out again.

“Darling, I understand why it would have been strange for you to, um, proceed without me understanding all this, but... I, er, I don't really want to draw the wrong conclusions, and I imagine there's more to this...”

“Yeah, angel, there is.” he sighed.

He tried to speak a few times, but finally just collapsed face-first into this chest again with an ambiguous kind of whining sound. His face felt hot.

“Crowley, this isn't... There isn't something you think you've done wrong again, is there?”

Surely, he could not blame himself for his mind scrambling away from pain and towards whatever safety he knew.

“Er- Not _done_... Not _wrong_.” he said, his voice a little bit high.

“Something someone's done to you? Or something _I've_ -”

“No.” he said quickly, “No, no, it's um...” Crowley was certainly trying to convey that the problem was with himself.

It was deeply embarrassing to admit to, is what it was, and worse that Aziraphale kept jumping to the possibility he was doing something wrong. He had tried to get him to understand this as much as possible without fully tipping his hand, he really had tried, but there was no way he was going to impress it all on him strongly enough without being quite explicit, or coming up with something more than that.

His skin everywhere felt quite hot and Aziraphale knew he was turning bright red again. He wanted to assure him that whatever it was he would not judge him for it, but he thought it had more to do with Crowley's internalized judgements anyway.

“ 'Ts more what I haven't done?” his voice eventually wiggled out, turning him quit alarmingly hot.

Crowley could practically hear the wordless question hanging in the air as his hand paused in stroking his arm, even though he stayed silent and waited.

“You don't mean...” Aziraphale's tone dropped, not a judgement, so much as disbelief, possibly a kind of empathetic distress.

Certainly, they had discussed that he had not had any willing relations with humans, that was no surprise and it was understandable enough even before all of this, but given the context, he had a very strong suspicion what he was about to be told, and was already suffering with a kind of incredulity.

“Every time... all I could think of was... Nothing good, not, not unless I distracted myself... But when I tried to, the only... It didn't feel right. It wasn't really important, not a need, not even- not really, and any time I tried I just felt... So I just- didn't.” he tried to reason through out loud, his voice getting no less wiggly as it went.

He was not impressed with himself at all. He had just promised himself he would be explicit, and succinct, and had managed neither. Of course, they were not having this conversation, _if_ they were he was doing a terrible job of it, but they were not, not as far as most of him was concerned. Now, after Aziraphale seemed to be nodding along to the logic of it, he could hear him trying not to draw conclusions out loud, audibly debating whether to ask all the questions he had just raised.

Crowley seemed so terribly pained, and of course he had gone back to red, and shaking, even curled into him to hide.

“It was never supposed to _matter_. Never supposed to come up, but...” Crowley justified, shaking his head as if still denying they were having this conversation at all.

They could have carried on indefinitely, without the holding, touching and kissing and it never would have been an issue. Now he had to clarify still, so he did not hear what conclusions he would come to on his own.

“Crowley...” he oozed an affectionate admonishment.

“Every time... It's too sensitive and I don't want to- Can't just... _Ssay what I mean, apparently._ ” he broke off to hiss at himself.

“You can't be serious, Crowley... It's been, why it's been _millennia_ , hasn't it?” he asked. “Darling, you have to know it isn't wrong to-”

“I know, I know what you're going to say-” he said, resting a finger on his chin as if to say he could not bear to hear him tell him what he was allowed in this instance.

“They-re just thoughts dear... Not anything _done_ to someone else...” Aziraphale soothed at him.

“Yeah, _alright_ , but listen, angel, it's not just seeing someone out on the street and having a quick wank when you get home...” he sounded quite irritated, defensive and embarrassed.

“It's... If I let myself want that, to encourage those thoughts when... When I didn't think you'd want... When I didn't know if it was welcome or if we _could_ , ever, or- And then to see you, and talk to you, spend time with you and get close to you... It just... Would feel too much like trying to have a one-sided relationship with you, whether you wanted it or not, and I... It didn't feel right, but I didn't want anyone else, and I couldn't think of _nothing_ , not without... So I just _didn't,_ and it didn't matter, and I didn't have to think about it, and, and now...”

It had made perfect sense to him, seemed like a perfectly reasonable course of action, just to focus on other things, and then bury it until he could not even remember that it was ever an issue, until now. He could hardly try to feel that kind of pleasure without a giant emotional void threatening to swallow him, and no thought of anyone else touching him ever brought him any comfort. It could hardly be surprising he had no familiarity with that kind of touch that did not feel violating, until now.

“But Crowley... I'd never judge you for-”

At least defensive and snippy had him talking about it a bit more articulately.

“Yeah? And how comfortable would you be, angel? Thinking of me like that w-when you-” Crowley interrupted himself as he faltered in processing what he was saying, and Aziraphale took the opening.

“Oh that's hardly the same... I don't... Well, I don't really think of people like that, not when... And, in any case, it would hardly seem fair, sending you away all the time, and then... Of course you're _lovely_ , but it would feel terribly objectifying, and after everything you've said about people sexualizing demons and now... Knowing what people have put you through, and if encouraging those thoughts came to affect how I treated you _at all_ , I just _couldn't_...”

“ 'Just thoughts, angel... Thoughts aren't wrong.” he muttered back at him.

“Not wrong, no, and I wouldn't judge someone else for it... but, it wouldn't _feel_ very good and that kind of, well, it would defeat the whole purpose...” he said, voice getting quieter as he realized he was addressing his own protests again.

“Oh... And it wouldn't have felt very good for you either, would it?” he asked softly as Crowley seemed to deflate slightly. “Feeling like I wouldn't want you, or like it was all something you couldn't ever have...”

Certainly, fighting with guilt, whether or not you thought it was rational, or being faced with a constant reminder of what you could not have or the ways in which you might not be wanted was not really conducive to a pleasant experience. He was also sure that lacking any positive model of an experience altogether was not helpful either. He could feel the light stroking of claws against his shirt now, his hot skin and hear the subtle sounds of his distress. This was starting to explain a few things, but he still had a lot of questions. At least he knew where to start.

“Darling, you don't mean to tell me that you... If no one else has been touching you at all, then in all this time you haven't- Not _at all_?” he asked gently.

Crowley groaned to himself as if terribly pained.

“Whatever it is you're implying, angel, no... At least not recently or consciously at all, er-if I ever-”

Crowley seemed to lose his capacity for speech right there, and was very red and shaking, but he was stuck in this form and all Aziraphale could do was stroke his arm with a soothing palm and try to reassure him.

He had thought Aziraphale's favourite word in all the universe was 'ineffable', but -much to his own mortification- over the past hour or so, and especially these dragging moments, he had become certain his favourite word was actually various intonations of a soft 'oh'. Another plethora of them fell like over-sensitive tickling against his embarrassment now.

“Oh well no wonder you're so sensitive, you poor, darling thing...” he said, feeling his skin heat up more.

Crowley thought calling it that was _still_ a gross understatement, and that all this affectionate coddling was just too much.

Aziraphale did his best to stroke his arm reassuringly while he took time to process. He was also trying not to say anything that could come off as insensitive or inappropriate, and balance that somehow with making it clear he was not put off by this. Maybe questions were the safest rout.

“So, when you get overwhelmed and you pull away, and you look all- and you say I'm not scaring you-”

“You're _not_... You're _really_ not, it's not just that you aren't doing anything to _cause_ it, it's that I'm not, not afraid, not hurt, I don't- It's just _so_ much, and I can't just... Didn't seem an appropriate time to tell you, not all this, not right away, and then it didn't seem appropriate to keep _not_ telling you, and I couldn't just let you carry on and not understand just how... But you're so gentle and careful, and I knew you'd never push too far, but I...”

“So you're not hurt, or scared, or... At all? You really do want me to touch you?” he asked, and Crowley nodded, “Not just someday, or in theory, but- You are enjoying it? Now?” he got another nod, claws toying at tugging on his shirt, “You just needed me to really understand...” still more subtle nodding, still too red.

“Yes, yes, alright? I know I should be, with everything, that I probably shouldn't want anything to do with it, convinced myself of it for so long, that it wasn't something... I don't know what's wrong with me... Every time you touch me all I want is more and it's too much, already too much, too sensitive, too _close_... Don't know if it's because I'm a demon or...”  
  


“Sweetheart, no. I told you there's no way you _aught_ to be responding to these things... And it wouldn't be so unusual...” Aziraphale trailed off

“For a demon, you mean?” he rolled his eyes, but he did not seem prickly about it that time, “For a snake?” he asked, brow flattening, as Aziraphale kept seeming to disagree.

Apparently, now was not one of those times he would be told he was allowed to be those things and was still lovely and deserving.

“No... _Well_ , I don't think that has anything to do with it...” he looked uncomfortable for a moment.

Crowley whined to himself. It sounded like there was something there, and curse his curiosity for even noticing, but he could not bear to scratch at it just then.

“I _mean_ , darling, it wouldn't be so unusual for someone who's been hurt like that... For a person.” he specified. “Some people become put off by the whole thing, yes, and that's understandable, but it wouldn't be out of the ordinary to respond, well, a little opposite, it's quite common actually... But I'm not sure... I'm not sure that even why...”

Certainly, hypersexuality as a response to trauma of that kind was a common enough thing, but he was not sure if it really fit in this instance, at least not in a textbook way. For one, he did not seem comfortable at all with the idea of sex, or his own sexuality, broadly speaking, and the scenarios in which he did experience arousal, from what he could tell, did not _themselves_ seem disordered. Though granted, if someone could manage to get so turned around as to become hyper-sexual and _also_ deeply put off by -and ashamed of- sex, it seemed Crowley might manage it.

“It seems to me it's perfectly reasonable to feel that way around someone who makes you feel safe and loved...” Aziraphale kept explaining, suddenly comfortable asserting these things if it was to defend Crowley from his own judgements.

They had been over that much. More than that the only thing that seemed to be distressing him about it was whatever shame he had internalized about sex, and that he was -understandably- sensitive. If it was disrupting his life regularly, or causing him to seek out harmful or dangerous situations, that would be different.

“Sometimes people respond to trauma by... Well, by re-exposing themselves to the risk of it, compulsively, as if trying to prove to themselves the outcome can be different, that they won't be hurt, or that it isn't traumatizing, that they're in control of it, or to try to re-process what happened to them... That would be very normal... But that's also different from just...”

“Just?” Crowley asked very quietly, confirming that he was listening and not just folding in on himself.

“Well, wanting intimacy is _normal_ , dear, and wanting pleasure... And of course I knew you were touch-starved, poor thing, but well... If no one has ever touched or held you the way you wanted... Well if I had gone all that time wanting something, in denial or not... I'd certainly be worked up about it... Quite eager, I'd imagine.” he soothed him.

Crowley whined against his shirt in embarrassment.

Of course this is what he had been doing with all those books, ensuring that whatever came up he would know how to discuss it and could be sure of what to say. Of course sensing this was difficult for him and wanting to understand, instead of trying to ply him with too many questions he was not ready for, Aziraphale had quietly been trying to figure out the possibilities and how to respond to each potential in a supportive way for himself.

“I'd underestimated it, though, hadn't I? _Still_ , just how sensitive everything is?” he asked, cooing at him gently.

Crowley could not take this. He did not know what could be more comforting than this, but this gentle oozing of affection felt just too soft to allow for. Part of him wanted to argue how unnecessary and ridiculous it was. The silent majority of him, however, was thankful for it, for the understanding and the softness, and that the last thing he seemed inclined to do right now was pull away again.

“Yeah, angel, you could say that.” he said quietly, but not entirely without some dry, reluctant kind of humour.

“ 'Tried to-” he attempted to explain, starting to slip into something that looked very much like anxiety again.

“Of _course_ , darling of course, you tried so hard to get me to understand.”

It was hard to adjust his perspective this far without this context, even if he could have guessed at the possibilities had he tried hard enough, but Crowley had certainly tried very hard to make sure he understood enough of it.

“Oh I really, _really_ _have_ been torturing you, haven't I?” Aziraphale said, far more emphatically than the last time.

Of course, Crowley never would have told him any such thing, until he was assured he was welcome to, because otherwise it would risk making him feel guilty for denying him. He shook his head now, as if very set on making it clear he had done nothing wrong.

“I don't mind-” he said too softly, “I mean, you've been so- so good to me, angel, I just... Couldn't let it get too far, could I? And if you're right about... If tears... We should be careful... _If-_ er _-_ ”

“Of course.” he said, softly, “Crowley, dear? Can I look at you?” he asked.

Crowley lifted himself off of his chest.

“I mean... Can I -really- look at you, now, like this?” he asked, much softer.

Crowley shivered apprehensively. If there was anything that would help him truly understand the sate his body was often in, with him in it, letting his ethereal eyes settle on him, fully open and clear, would certainly be it.

“You haven't? he asked a little playfully, “Not at all lately?” he teased, knowing the answer.

“Well, a _little_ glance here or there, to know you're alright, but I know it makes you uncomfortable.” he soothed him earnestly.

Of course, now he understood why he had taken that night to choose to tell him how rude it could be. Truth be told he often kept his ethereal eyes closed entirely, part of why he usually asked Crowley to check if they were being observed. It was easier to be immersed in his human body and human experiences that way, and it kept him from the wrong notice, in addition to whatever it helped in regards to not unsettling or outright terrifying people. Human vision was like a pleasant and fuzzy dream by comparison, and he was rather fond of how gentle the whole thing was.

It seemed innocent enough to glance at him to make sure he was alright, or the barest flutter when he seemed comfortable enough, when he was basking under his attention otherwise and melting into sleep. There were times Crowley hummed contentedly at that attention as much as any other, and certainly proved time and again he could feel it as acutely as anyone else, but Aziraphale would hardly allow for it when he seemed nervous, vulnerable, or when it came to situations where he was intentionally not telling him everything. So lately, if he meant that in the sense of the past year or so, he could count the instances of it on a few fingers.

“Yeah, angel, you can look at me.” he said, uncharacteristically softly.

He did not seem to be blushing any less, and he could not say he was not shaking, but he did not seem fearful or reluctant. He seemed almost relieved, softening in his hands just slightly.

An angel's eyes were not actually eyes, not in the literal sense, not exactly. They were more like an abstraction of the concept that even he would have a hard time relating as closely to any other human sense. It was a lot like vision, to perceive the way energy was currently arranged in a way that seemed so concrete and complete and gave such a sense of state, texture and potential. To look at his corporation now was not just to perceive it as his human eyes would, it was to perceive its state, neurologically, biochemically, and physically, every string and particle of energy, waiting for him to shift his focus to them.

Crowley must trust him not to judge him and must be comfortable being known, to consent to being so profoundly seen in a vulnerable moment like this. The barest flicker of the eye at the core of him opening and Crowley melted into his hand enough that he stopped shaking and Aziraphale had to sit up to hold him properly. His tail slipped too easily on the tub to give him any traction unless he was actively using it to swim, or pushing against the opposite side, which he gave up trying to accomplish, and he seemed to remember he had eyelids at his disposal again. Again he felt him give, completely, layers of his being not folding themselves away exactly, but becoming pliant and soft.

If Aziraphale did not stop making subtle sounds as though he had been handed the most precious thing in all of existence Crowley would never recover.

Aziraphale, once he got over just taking him in in a general sense, first and foremost noticed nerves, a hyperactive sparking off of where he was holding him, and in general primed to fire. To put it one way, to entertain Crowley's construct, which was somehow less abstract than just studying the subtleties of nerves and hormones attaching to them, it was like he could see a great machine.

It was actually more like a little empire of machinery, clockwork and elaborate structures, and most of it seemed to be zipping along just fine, firm and certain, the cogs frighteningly sure of grip and the motions definitive. In general, it seemed like it could use a bit of care, maybe some oil here or there, but it was a sight to behold, this big dark machine under the orange glow of the sky. A snake here or there slithered, checking this or that and leaving again, sliding scales looking like animate metallic rope sneaking through the paths they knew to take. That was for the most part.

There were, however, parts of the machine that where zipping along far too quickly, or not at all, on closer inspection, due to some disastrous combination of worn cogs and what seemed like it might be too much oil. In fact, it seemed to be outright changing the function of some parts of the machine, and the snakes which blanketed the floors in these parts seemed in an awful tizzy about it.

There was a patch nearby in an open part of the floor where snakes were patrolling a boundary, as if fearing invaders. Vines that were actually braided metal tubes sprouted from beneath the floor here and were being carefully dripped with oil. They each, most of them, had a cog attached to on top, and some of those cogs even seemed to be developing proper teeth. Sprouting out of them like petals. He saw a snake wrestle a smoothed cog off the machine and twist it to the top of an empty rope. There was a sign on a little post that read: No angels allowed. A little blue light perched right at the border looking on, dithering and worried, but minding the boundary.

He could see now that there were little blue lights drifting about all over some parts of the machine, and especially here, each with their very own set of little fluffy wings. They zipped along wherever they were not expressly forbidden causing all kinds of mischief. He watched them shoot down messages being sent out by a machine that seemed to translate punch-cards, with little heart tipped arrows, folding some into interesting shapes or adding holes before feeding them back in, sneaking some cards of their own into it too.

He watched them tug snakes off of the gears, and coddle them while the writhed dramatically, too overwhelmed by the attention. He watched them gather around a great magenta orb in the corner, even jumping into it and splashing around. He also watched them gather up the fluid and bring measured amounts of it over to the snakes at the machine. The snakes would inspect the amount and point to which gears and cogs they were allowed to drip it over. It was the ones doing an impolite amount of diving and the occasional backstroke, causing all kinds of splashing, that seemed to have the snakes nervous.

This large glass fishbowl of glowing oil dwarfed so many other things and was held on either side by great arms, on pins, as if it was meant to rotate and periodically pour oil out into the funnels that lead to various parts of the machine, as if feeding a great sprinkler system. It had been propped up so it could not tip, and then, when it developed a crack, it had been tapped and glued shut again. It seemed over-full at this point, and well overdue to tip over, and the machine at large seemed like it might benefit from an occasional dunk in the oil, but the snakes seemed rather concerned about what it would do to some parts of their carefully shaped machine if that were to happen.

There were elaborate clocks around, even elaborate enough to track months and years, some of the clocks were even set to the current time and date. He imagined that the great clock ticking in the distance might even count centuries or millennia, but when the angel-lights seemed to fuss at them or at the machine with the glass orb, the snakes just tapped at a random clock with their tails, and shook their heads, but then, they also seemed distressed when the little lights got too listless and would helpfully whisper suggestions to them of what trouble they were allowed to cause.

He caught one of these lights, cornering it in between tangents of his notice until it held uncertainly still, and he was able to examine it. All it seemed to contain was a whisper of his own voice being played back at him, only saying one word: _Darling_. He imagined the others were more or less the same, though he did not actually want to pry enough to fish one of the ones out of its happy splashing in the fishbowl contraption to see if it was made of anything less tame. They did, more or less, in their own way, seem to be trying to be helpful, and they even seemed to be trying to organize themselves and observe any of the rules, but they were just too enthusiastic for the grumpy little snakes. It was barely managed chaos.

“ _Sweetheart_...” he intoned somewhere near a question, just in time to see a new little light roll in and spring into being.

“Hm?” Crowley hummed contentedly in response, tugging just gently.

He had never meant to do this to him. Of course, it had been some accident of escalating circumstances, and neither of their faults, really, and he knew that, but it still felt like having quite carelessly lead him into this. He was not quite sure of the extent of this, but Crowley seemed to be trying to show him.

“Crowley... This hardly seems like the time, you're all-”

On one hand, he was conflicted about getting carried away kissing him too much just at the moment, on the other hand, there was a practical reason behind him tugging him subtly forward.

“I know, I know, but there's a point...” Crowley coaxed, nudging gently to suggest he kiss him anyway.

Crowley's point, apparently had something to do with electricity zipping about all over the place. It had to do with snakes fainting off of gears and warm magenta oozing threateningly. It had to do with nerves firing and threatening to get quite carried away, with a dull orange glow being lit up with electric blue and a burning magenta light, with a whole city of machinery shuddering and waiting; with his own voice setting off parts of the machine here or there in between every kiss.

A new litany of 'oh's that sounded like a new level of understanding each time, though at least not like disapproval, was making very quick work of his nerves.

He kissed him gently, carefully, long enough for him to relax and to see what he was trying to show him. Already Crowley was no longer pulling himself back, no longer seeming to fight with himself over it. Now that real honestly and genuine awareness of the situation was on the table, he seemed entirely more at ease in a way he had slowly slipped away from since he had first kissed him.

Of course, there was no danger of anything sneaking up on him if Aziraphale was keeping such a close eye on what his nerves were doing. He could relax and enjoy, encourage every experimental touch, press and stroke knowing he had given him all the fair warning he could. The hands on his skin, ever more gentle were heating up quickly, getting lighter and ever more careful, and as distracted as he was with all these sensations, he could not help a bit of amusement noticing how his breathing changed. Of course, Aziraphale pulled back the moment an indulgent tone slipped into his own voice.

“Oh.” he said, a little distractedly that time.

What he has seen, as he held him, kissed him, and ran his hand into his hair, was the touch centre of his brain working itself into some kind of alert frenzy, far too quickly to seem at all practical. The longer he kissed him the more everything in him seemed to be drawn towards focusing on backing away from wherever some parts of the machine was set on taking him, like a track under a number of the units lead right to the base of that bowl contraption, the beginning of said tracks very worn, and the other end pristine, and like a thousand little snakes were threatening to throw themselves in a blockade onto the tracks if any part of the machine slipped too far along them.

He had not looked at him this way, studied him quite this closely, since some ancient time, and certainly not after holding him and stroking his arms, hair and wings for hours at a time. Even as the frenzy slowed back down and started to appear almost normal again, all it took was drawing close to his ear and kissing his cheek lightly to send it back the other way in an awful hurry. The push and pull was elastic, and yet there seemed a hard limit on either side. No wonder he had seemed so nervous about all of this.

Now was hardly the appropriate time to process everything this really meant, or how he felt about this or the potential of it. There was a lot to unpack here, but a lot of it was to be set aside for later. Right now his concern was making sure Crowley was okay and regaining something of an equilibrium, making sure he was understanding him properly, and listening to everything he was trying to get him to understand. It was certainly not the time to keep kissing him and getting distracted seeing how he lit up everywhere, regardless of how compelling either of them seemed to find it at the moment, or what the little snakes on his own shoulder whispered ticklishly in his ears about what Crowley might enjoy.

“Well, that's certainly, um... A conundrum.” he said, licking his lips unconsciously, pulling back and trying to breathe normally.

Crowley grinned, briefly, like a laugh. His anxious mood had to break at some point and maybe the relief of finally having him understand was tricking him into relaxing a little too much, or maybe all the kissing was getting to his head, but he could hardly be anything but amused, not with the way Aziraphale was trying very hard not to look at him. He could be shy or cautious about whatever he was experiencing, but he could not very well hide the way his pupils dilated without thinking he aught to.

Aziraphale suddenly shifted to a somewhat more respectful distance, and turned very pink, blinking as if trying to pull himself back into trains of thought he found more useful or appropriate at the moment. Of course he hardly _seemed_ put off by this, quite the opposite, and that was a relief too. Part of him had hoped for a less restrained reaction, but mostly he was thankful for how careful he was being. At least he did not seem to be withdrawing or putting up walls this time.

A moment later Crowley's embarrassment seemed to catch up and he looked away again. At least he seemed to be done shaking for the time, but he was still quite warm, skin growing hotter in the silence that followed. He wondered if maybe he was giving him the wrong impression, pulling back, but he was not sure what could be light handed enough to correct it without over-stepping something else. Seeing how much he could enjoy this was setting off some kind of rolling thunder somewhere in his own mind, warning of what was to come, promising rain, warm heavy and welcome. Now was not the time for that.

For one thing, whatever conversation they were having had him emotionally vulnerable in a way neither of them had ever really seen as far as he was aware. For another, when they did finish taking their time sorting through all these things, they had other concerns to contend with; literal armies of celestials and the warding to keep them away, for one. His ethereal feathers ruffled as if instinctively burying him deeper away from sight. They were pressed edge to edge and layering together on the surface in a way that, while not quite like occupying the same points in space, felt akin, and very secure. Still, in case he was not being obvious enough, he kissed his forehead again softly.

I was then Aziraphale realized the position Crowley was in, that he had no traction on the tub himself and was really quite reliant on him to hold him up or let him curl up against him again. Sure he had his arms and his wings for leverage, over the edge of the tub, but he had already proven to have a hard time figuring out how to move around in this state, and had already betrayed he was not in conscious control of his form. His tail was not very long and it slid on the glass-painted ceramic of the tub quite uselessly. He had likely been hesitant to get into the tub by himself due to this exact issue and had once again put himself in his hands in a very vulnerable position.

Now he had to admit that was still a little terrifying and not just out of some mental habit of concern that someone else would see his vulnerability. If it would not be such a terribly insensitive question, he would ask him how he could possibly trust him this much.

“Would you like me to hold you?” he asked, perhaps needlessly, instead.

Crowley nodded and slid easily back in against him, as if holding himself away was what took the most effort, either physically or otherwise.

“... And I can keep looking at you, like this?” he asked, sounding genuinely hopeful in a way that was a little heartbreaking to hear.

“Yess.” Crowley sighed, as if that too was a relief to be able to relax into after all this time, even if his skin burned hotter.

It was never that he had wanted to be be less understood or less known, it was that seeing too much of how his body responded to things often would have raised questions he did not even have good answers to for himself, would have smashed through his own denial to know he was seeing all of it, especially that night and on select occasions since. They were not the wrong questions, but they were ill-timed and not ones either of them had been ready for yet.

“Yes, angel... From now on, yess.” he hissed softly.

He said this, and it was undoubtedly for the better, but Aziraphale imagined it would take him some time to get used to. He had swung right back to surprisingly shy, blood rushing in his skin, and sighing as if tracing over him with his perception was synonymous with touching him. He wanted to spend hours tracing gentle lines against his skin to watch the pattern of nerves sparking off of it. It was not the time for that. They needed time to decompress. There was still plenty to unpack that was not what Crowley might enjoy if it was offered. Still, he could stroke his hair and his back a little, and go back to holding and soothing him the way he had been doing, enjoying that he was no longer trying to hide his contented hums and breaths.

There really was more to discuss and plenty more questions, he was sure, but it was such a comfortable silence for the moment, here in the dim light and the warm water, with the brush of skin on hands and arms, on faces, with gentle forehead kisses and fingers gently stroking his hair. Maybe drifting in and out of sleep for a few hours was more than expected of him at this point.

~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canoodling.
> 
> Your end note warnings and tags are:
> 
> 1 to 2) budding alcoholism, complex implications of sexual abuse, mentions of date rape and incest, and implied suicidal ideation (as far as that can apply to an immortal).
> 
> 2 to 3) Mentions of drug use, willing drug consumption, unhealthy coping and severe depression.
> 
> 3 to 4) Explicit mention of rape under the influence of mind altering substances, implied suicidal ideation.
> 
> 4-5) First hand account of sexual assault, one very hurt and confused Crowley.
> 
> 5+) A closing discussion that touches on indirect implications of all of this that may still give some context if you've skipped previous portions.
> 
> Search with CTRL+F to skip to the number after the span you would rather avoid reading, or use the numbered tags as a warning of what you're about to get into. Make sure you're in a good space.  
>    
> Idk if I need to mention this explicitly, but Crowley has not actually done anything wrong, and you don't need to be concerned about our leads hurting each other. There are a lot of thoughts and feelings happening though.
> 
> I've tried to make sure that everything brought up has been lead into with enough warning to not come as a surprise. Also I'm sorry. I am still writing the first draft of this myself so I don't necessarily have a sense of the full impact or contents until I write a scene. There's suddenly a lot to be addressed here and I'm sorry to leave the scene there, but that chapter was already almost a third longer than usual and I didn't want to leave this another month without an update. I'll try to have the next chapter up before long. I know these themes have been hinted at all along, but that was a bit more of a "whump" type deal than I was anticipating. I thought numbering the scene breaks was a decent way to let people skip parts if they wanted to. If there is something I should tag the story as a whole, please let me know.

**Author's Note:**

> I am updating some of the tags and ratings now because I have decided to keep updating this and am almost done another update. I wanted to make sure it was tagged and rated correctly.
> 
> The rating has been changed to explicit due to an iffy dream sequence and following shower, and because I'm relatively certain this is going somewhere.
> 
> And yes this is based on my real life experience of [all] tomato plants being little bitches. [Listen, they really are.]
> 
> Oh yeah! I keep forgetting to mention my icon here isn't a GO thing, it's a graphic from an AR type trail I'm running that tumblr broke a little. I'll update on tumblr with a work-around at some point, but the prize is a free commission+ And bragging rights.
> 
> Crowley is gender fluid and we stan him/them/her. But there is also nothing straight about this, thanks.
> 
> The various "all the homo" tags were because the moment I showed Crowley being gender fluid I seemed to lose some readership and experienced a sudden shift in people commenting. I wanted to make sure it wasn't because they thought I was going in an obnoxiously hetero direction with this by having one of them be Fem! whenever they were intimate [cause some people do that]. It's not some fetishy "yaoi" thing.
> 
> The "genderfluid" tag is letting transphobes know that there WILL be gender fluidity involved. NB characters are non-binary and part of the trans community. It's canon compliant. It's in the book. If you want to see them painted as strictly a gay couple, or strictly -anything- really, this isn't the fic for you. I'll probably even have fem!Aziraphale at some point. 
> 
> I also made comments need to be approved first when I noticed this shift, because if anyone -did- come on here and make a clown of themselves, I didn't want my readers to have to see that.
> 
> If you want to send me hate mail, use the anon on my tumblr, it's always open.
> 
> I am trying to clean up the tags some. IDK what to tag in general. I'm new to this site and haven't written much for fandom in a while. If you have tag suggestions, please comment them. I am allowing anon comments, I just need to approve them first.
> 
> I see you tagging with when I updated ;) I know my schedule is bogus, I promise I do plan on finishing this. Releasing a story as I write it is a relatively new thing for me.


End file.
